Babymaniacs

It's recently come to my attention that people are sometimes a little too into their babies. And when I mean "a little too into," I mean OBSESSED. I'm not talking about the typical doting parent who loves his child to death and would kick the ass of anyone who'd hurt his child. I'm talking about parents who will cover 90% of her wall with her child's art work, prop up ten to twenty thousand framed photographs of her child at various stages of infancy, use a mousepad with a picture of her baby on it, use the baby's head as a background, screensaver and mouse icon on her computer, and affix as a signature to every email a picture of the baby.

It's a bit much.

I also find it amusing how everyone thinks that their baby is the smartest baby in the whole wide world. (So much for the teachers who thought Albert Einstein was retarded when he was in grade school.) Parents forcefeed the states and capitals to their infant so that the infant, whose umbilical cord is still healing from being cut a few hours ago, can recite them at baby parties. I want to just tell these parents to chill out. Just chill out. Chances are, if the parents are smart, so will the kids.

But maybe these parents are right -- if Einstein had watched Baby Mozart as an infant and was forced to memorize the periodic table when he was 2, he would have uncovered the mathematical proof of time travel, God and existence as we know it.

Damn, Einstein's parents f-ed that one up.

Now IKNOWIKNOWIKNOW, I won't understand this insanity until I have a baby, and I don't have a baby so I don't understand, so who am I to complain, wah wah wah. I readily admit that when I have a beb of my own, I'm gonna brag about how kick ass smart he is and how he's going to be such a superhero when he grows up. I get it.

I just hope someone calls my shit out when I start fashioning postage stamps and refrigerator magnets with my baby's head on them. God help us all if I do that.

Worlds apart

Single life and coupled life are both very interesting.

As a single girl, you have single friends and talk about sex and bad sex, guys and bad guys, date and bad dates. For the past few years, this has been the bulk of my existence.

Now that I'm in a relationship, I see this whole other world, the world of couples. It's a world where all of a sudden your couple-friends invite you over for dinner, and you begin attending parties with other couples. You go to shops that only couples seem to go to, shops that sell dog calendars and coasters and feng shui stools and minimalist keychain holders. And then you're invited to couples-outings. For example, a married couple invited us to go on a vacation with them. It's a whole new world.

And only now do I realize that there are two different worlds, because my former single life seems like a distinct segmant of my life. I recently noticed a growing distance between me and my single friends. Maybe we just have less in common now, given that we talked about boys 99.9% of the time. Or maybe it feels like the boyf takes up 99.9% of my time, if not my thoughts.

I also noticed that a few of my single friends have gone out without inviting me. When I was single, they'd shoot an email during the week asking if I wanted to see the new bar or club opening up and check out the 'market' there. We'd go and meet various socially retarded men and go on dates with them despite the red flags and complain about it the week thereafter. Rinse cycle and repeat.

Now I'm not invited so much. Granted, it could be because I'm not as fun as I used to be. But a part of me suspects that it's because I'm no longer on the market and wouldn't delight in the adventures of meeting suspiciously attractive sociopaths.

I do know that, the boyf notwithstanding, it's important to maintain one's girlfriendships. Because without the girls, where would we be? I think everyone goes through at least a couple emotionally traumatizing events in her/his life, and in the end, we each get through it with at least a little help and support from our friends.

I've seen too many times where a woman, once she snags a guy, will "disappear" on her gal pals. A year or two later, she breaks up with the guy and, only then, she realizes she has no friends. It's dangerous to bank one's entire social life on one guy. Even if she's happily married.

So my mandate to myself is this: I maintain and nurture my girlfriendships.

No matter which world I'm in.

Monday night

It's Christmas eve, and I'm here at home, obviously with free time to blog, read and play with the cats. My mother is altering her dress for her Christmas concert tomorrow at church. Needless to say, my brother and I will be in attendance.

Earlier today, I was looking through drawers and closets for a blank notepad, when I found some old photo albums. One was a leathery bound volume, and it creaked and hissed as I carefully opened its hard thick cover.

I saw my mom in her white wedding gown, with sky blue eyeshadow and thick mascara -- that was the style then I suppose. I saw pictures of my parents and my brother and me when we were toddlers. My eyes were so small then. Pictures of me and my brother hugging or climbing a tree. Pictures of us smiling in front of a birthday cake. There were pictures of my mom in her fobby mullet, my dad with his bushy black hair. There was a picture of us sitting on top of the orange Oldsmobile. Us wading in the pool at Disney World. Us with our grandparents who, I hate to say it, look the same age as my mom now and my late father.

There was one picture of me, I think it was 1982 or something. I was in a tree, with a denim skirt and white stockings, and my mouth was agape, frozen, in a presumably deafening bawl. I REMEMBER that day. Of course my mom, thinking it was hilarious that I was shrieking my head off hysterically, decided to memorialize the moment by taking a clean photograph of me.

I remember that day. I climbed that tree, and after growing bored with the view, wanted to get down. When I looked down to the sole branch that would be my escape, I saw at the bottom of that branch just inches below my foot a humongous colony of ants. Black ants, crawling in thousands of directions, waiting to eat my foot and then the rest of me. I was trapped in the tree, and probably going to die there since there was no other way to get down. Confronted with an imminent, horrible death, I began crying. And noticing no one was helping me, the crying evolved into an all-out bawling tantrum.

This was literally a cry for help.

It was at that moment my mother stood in front of me (gleefully I imagine) and took a photo of me.

That picture is in a photo album in my house. Clearly, I'm not still annoyed that my mother took a picture of me at a particularly vulnerable moment. Clearly. I closed the leather bound photo volume not too soon after seeing that picture, and placed it back in the cabinet.

Memories. Like the corners of my mind.

R & R

I am reading "The Kite Runner," by Khaled Hosseini. I decided on a whim to buy it in the airport since my flight was delayed by over an hour. I didn't read it on the plane at all (was catching up on sleep), and only started reading it in the airport after I arrived.

It's a good book.

It's amazing how universal certain things are -- the immigrant experience, diaspora, a country having a dominant culture and subordinate (and therefore oppressed) culture. I confess I am pretty ignorant when it comes to any culture, even my own, so I found the story told from an Afghani point of view was fascinating. I had never heard of a Hazara until I started reading this novel.

I also noticed some uncanny similarities between the protagonist's father and my own Yellow father. Are all dads from the Asian continent all the same?!

Anyhow, like I said, it's a good book. And the title, very apt.

Fairy tales

I am home for the holidays. One of my habits when I come home is to look through my old bookcase and peruse through books I've already read and yearbooks and random book reports I happened to save.

This afternoon, I found one of my first "short stories." I wrote it when I was seven or eight years old. It's not exactly an exemplary work of fiction, but I thought it'd be interesting to share. If I had a scanner and the requisite patience, I'd have scanned and posted my illustrations here. Suffice it to say I wasn't bad with the Crayola markers and watercolors.

---

A Pretty Secret, by Yellow Gal

A long, long time ago a poor, poor family had a baby. It was a girl.

Every night something strange would happen. A big star would come. It was a fairy.

The fairy would make kind wishes to the baby girl. The mother named the baby Lisa.

Sixteen years later, Lisa was beautiful. The fairy still came. The fairy told her not to tell anyone she had a fairy visitor.

One day she told everybody that she had a secret. Everybody wanted to know about the secret.

A few years later, somebody asked Lisa about her secret. She disobeyed the fairy. She told the person who asked her.

Then the fairy came and said, "You foolish girl, you." So she put a spell on her that she would never move again. "Someone will have to make you cry," said the fairy.

Lots of years passed and Lisa's parents died.

Lisa was still a girl. Three handsome men came. One thought the girl was so beautiful that he would make her cry. He tried, and tried, and tried, but he could not make her cry.

So the second man tried, and he tried, and he tried, but he could not make her cry.

So the third man tried, and he tried, and he tried.

At last he made her cry.

She was unfrozen. And they lived happily ever after.

---

Don't ask. I don't know. The explanation I can think of for the randomness of the story is that I read a lot of fairy tales back then, and there was always some beautiful girl disobeying some fairy and being cursed and it always took three tries for some dude to save her.

Like I said, not exactly an exemplary work of fiction.

The third grader within can't help but wonder though. I've been in two long-term relationships thus far. Could this guy be the one who saves me? Is the third time always the charm?

Then the adult in me wonders why we make up these stories and sayings. I guess people would rather hear something fanciful and happy, rather than knowing nothing and feeling like it's all a crapshoot.

I guess we'll all figure that one out in the end.

Stand up

So I did confront my boss, specifically about his screaming and cursing at me. I did it in a non-confrontational manner, or so I thought. When I brought up it to my boss's attention (with my other boss in the room, door closed), both of them started explaining away the concern, how other bosses are so much worse, how fortunate I am that I didn't work at such and such place. I guess I thought it through more than I realized, because I had a response to every point they made. Then I got this vibe in the room, a negative vibe, a defensive vibe. At one point, my boss said to me, "Cut me some slack!" He was frowning and looking away from me, in a way I had never seen before.

And I realized it. I had hit a nerve.

I reached my hand out across the desk towards him, as a gesture of kindness, and said, "I hope you don't take this personally."

And he said, "Of course I take it personally. You hurt my feelings, and I take it very personally. I don't think I'm a bad person."

And I said, "Oh, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings!"

He responded, "Well you did."

I was shocked. I expected to get yelled at, retaliated against, etc. But I hurt his feelings. I hurt my boss's feelings. I was in disbelief. It occurred to me that I wasn't the first person to express this concern.

I do admit though that at least one of their responses was legit: I need to get a thicker skin.

Anyhow, in the end, he said, "This is who I am. I'll do my best to address your concern, but chances are, I'm not going to change."

I responded, "Quite frankly, I expected you to say that. This is how you've operated for over fifty years so I honestly don't expect you to change just like that. I just wanted to express to you how I felt."

"Fair enough."

"Fair enough."

So that's that. I don't think things'll change remarkably. But I felt better that I stood up for myself. I even felt a little bad for hurting my boss's feelings, and perhaps a little insubordinate for dare criticizing my boss (both the Naysayer and the Boyfriend quelled the latter concern).

But I stand by the moral tenet that a boss shouldn't scream profanities to his employee. It isn't right.

Just a little

I'm about to confront my boss with a few things that concern me. Needless to say, I'm anxious as shit.

But I take solace in two things. First, if I don't stand up for myself, who will? No one will stand up for me but me. Second, I know I'm right.

Why does it take so much to have a little faith in oneself?

Self-improving Yellow Gal

I know I have many flaws. But one flaw that stings me in particular is my passivity, which is related to my occasional passive-aggression.

I detest this about myself.

No doubt, I can be pretty blunt to people. Say things to their face. Tell them what my damage is or how they pissed me off. And I usually feel great after airing out my concerns.

And other times, I'm not. And I hate that. Part of this I suspect emerges from my upbringing. My mother, the most passive person I know, always discouraged rocking the boat and confronting people when it could be avoided. Is this an Asian thing? Or a female thing? Or a female Asian thing?

If someone ripped her off, her typical response would be, "Oh forget about it. I don't want to cause trouble for anyone. Let it be."

Another factor is the Christian factor. As I mentioned many-a-time in my blog, I was once a hard-core Bible thumper. Matthew 5:38-42 says: "If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles." I literally interpreted this as, "If someone asks you to bend over and grab your ankles, hand him the lube."

And, in addition to my upbringing, I have a general desire to be liked. If given a choice between being liked and being disliked, which would you choose? I naturally choose A. If you tell someone he's wrong or he's stupid, you will be disliked. If you tell him he's right or smart, you will be liked.

All of these factors are detrimental to my personal life and professional life. As an attorney, this has been particularly troublesome.

For example, I sometimes worry over pissing off opposing counsel. My boss tells me, "It's not your job to be their buddy. It's your job to represent your client. Clients don't pay you based on how well you get along with opposing counsel. They pay you based whether you win."

Another instance this hurts me professionally is when I deal with my bosses. One boss in particular has cursed me out and threatened to kill me. This clearly is not right. Yet I haven't the guts to go up to him yet and say, "While I appreciate the benefits of constructive criticism, cursing me out and threatening to kill me are unprofessional and inappropriate. I request that you stop doing that because that conduct serves no valid purpose."

But instead of asserting myself, I do nothing. And then I get mad, both at myself and the perpetrators, for allowing all of this to happen. Then I act pissy around them (read: passive-aggression) and then get mad for being pissy.

It's stupid really.

A woman once told me it isn't until you're 40 when you're fully self-actualized, when you finally get it and you don't take shit from anyone, no matter how pissy or cantankerous someone is to you. When I first heard this in my early twenties, I couldn't believe how long it would take for me to reach that level. But now, I realize how far I have to go.

This entry is a confession. In other words, I already know that my habits are wrong and should be eliminated. Toward that end, I'm reading an interesting book, "Breaking the Bamboo Ceiling," by Jane Hyun, that addresses how certain Asian Americans face cultural impediments to their careers.

For example, in Japan and no doubt other Asian cultures, it is disrespectful to interrupt your superiors/elders or question the validity of their opinions. In America, it is encouraged to speak up against The Man, interrupt, push forward and be the "squeaky wheel." Therefore, if you harbor traditional Asian notions, even unconsciously, you won't get as far as someone who does rock the boat and stand up for himself even if it causes conflict.

I may also read books that are geared towards women. We all know that on average, women make less money than men for the same job with the same level of education. Part of this we may attribute to embedded sexism. But another part is that women don't self-promote. They don't ask for raises. They don't toot their own horn. Meanwhile, men go out of their way to pursue promotions aggressively, ask their bosses point blank for a raise, and tout their accomplishments.

The women who defy feminine convention and demand their propers, like Martha Stewart and Hilary Clinton, end up succeeding. Granted, they are reviled as "bitches." For some reason though, I suspect that neither Martha nor Hilary give a flying fuck.

I also plan on connecting with and picking the brains of other female Asian American attorneys who have practiced longer and therefore know what it's like to work in a White Man's world and beat them at their own game. I can't wait until that day when I am reviled as a bitch and don't give a flying fuck and can bring anyone to their knees. I won't cower or flinch when confronted. I'll step forward, look at him in the eye, and say "What?"

BUT until that day, I'll harbor this flaw. It's only a matter of time. And effort.

On the other side

I recently connected with an old high school friend through myspace. Apparently, she's residing in Southern California, a.k.a., the Other Coast. I perused her photos, and seriously, every picture she has is of her on the beach, on a yacht, on a yacht by the beach, in a tent that's near a beach that's near a yacht; and wearing a tank top and shorts, a halter top and shorts, a sun dress, or a swimsuit.

Right now I'm picking a fuzzy lint off of my gray turtleneck sweater, and I can't help but once again envy those folks with their perpetual sunny weather and perpetual sunny demeanor.

Strangely though, she recently posed the following question on her bulletin board: "Should I move back east?"

Move back? But, why?

A myriad of responses appeared on her message board. A common response was being closer to family. Fair enough. That's legit. Though quite frankly that's the reason why some people move away.

And there were other reasons. Good food, fat people, winters with damp scarves and windchill factors, and cab drivers who say "fuck you" for no reason whatsoever.

Was this a dysfunctional symbiotic relationship she had with the east coast? Or perhaps the greener grass wasn't as green as she hoped. Maybe she wanted the less green grass, the yellower grass with its patchy growth, pet droppings and broken glass.

Ultimately, I suspect that there is something fundamentally irreplaceable about whatever place we call home; and while the grass may be greener on the other side, it's just that: the other side. It's not Home.

@ the office

There's something unnerving about being alone in the office on a Friday evening. Maybe it's the fact that I'm free to wear my hair in an offensively spiky ponytail or that I can wear bathroom slippers around the office without judgment. It's very quiet, save for the sound of traffic outside my window and the soft humming of the printer next to me.

Of course I'm not really alone. The janitorial staff has yet to make its round on my floor (they tell me in broken English I work too much - I haven't the heart to tell them that I am just a bad procrastinator). And outside my window looms another glittery sky scraper, some of whose windows are still lit. I always have this vague feeling that people are still there, sitting at their computers, occasionally glancing over to my building and wondering if there are people here. I wonder if they can see me, with my offensively spiky ponytail and bathroom slippers. I wonder if any of them have binoculars.

I can't take credit for the binocular idea. I remember seeing an episode of NewsRadio where one employee was looking out his office window with binoculars. Coincidentally, another employee was simultaneously looking at him through her window with binoculars. Comedy ensued.

But really. I can't say I feel uninhibited enough to run around screaming my head off at the top of my lungs, though my boss has been known to do that once in a while. Perhaps the craziest thing I've done is have "a male guest" visit me late at night (the whole swooshing all the papers off the desk thing is fun, but it's a real pain to pick up everything afterwards). I could at least close the door for that. The second craziest thing is probably playing trance or rap music at full blast in my office late at night whilst typing up a brief. I think once, one of the building's security guards came up to investigate the noise, and upon seeing me in the hallway, a bespecled Asian girl in a spiky ponytail and bathroom slippers, went back downstairs.

But right now the office is very quiet. There's something unnerving about being alone in the office on a Friday evening.

Rarr

I am angry about a lot of things. Angry about stuff I have no control over. Angry over the fact that I'm angry over stuff I have no control over. Angry that I'm angry at all, when there are people dying in Iraq and starving in North Korea and working in sweatshops in China.

This anger is palpable. I can feel it in my chest, breathing in the air I breathe and living off of me.

I have this theory that if I go running, the anger and frustration and stupid angst I have pent up will somehow dissipate. That with each mile I run, the negative energy will exit through every step I pound into the pavement and every breath I force out of my mouth. And then in the end, I will be less angry. Because it won't be inside anymore. It'll be swirling aimlessly in the wake of the path I just jogged, trying to find someplace to go after having been forced out of my chest, and then just settling for some brittle leaves on the ground before decaying.

I need to go running.

Spin her right round

I am more right brained I suppose.

But I can see her spinning counter-clockwise as well.

Put the knife down

Yes. Girls can be psycho too. Hello. Read my blog. Probably the most psychotic thing I've done with respect to guys (other than unhealthily obsessing over them) is looking them up on facebook, myspace, friendster and/or google. Here are some psycho things I know for a fact some girls have done:

1) Once the guy leaves the girl alone in his apartment, she will go through all his stuff. And when I mean "go through," I mean more than just opening the medicine cabinet. I mean opening drawers, paging through and reading personal files, turning on the computer and looking through the internet browser's history, cache, and cookies.

2) The girl will see her guy walking down the street with a colleague one random afternoon and then call him later and accuse him of sleeping with her. "What are you talking about?" he will say, and she responds, "You know what I'm talking about. Face it, you're busted. Just stop lying to me" -- when all the while, she is completely bluffing.

3) The girl will look through his cell phone when he's not looking, and read every call entry, received, outgoing, and missed. Additionally, she will read his address book and texts, sent and received.

4) The girl will hack into the guy's email (hotmail or yahoo) and read all his email, sent and received.

That's all I have for now. I don't know of any girls who sleep with their boyfriend's brother to get back at him or pretend to be pregnant to get the guy to marry her. Because that would be psycho.

I myself am pretty private and make it a point to respect the guy's privacy. In college, I dated a guy who was a computer whiz and at times monitored what computer I logged into my email at any time. Sometimes he would mention how my ISP was different at a certain time of the day and ask me where I was then. Another time, I let a different guy use my computer to do something and he ended logging into my email reading all my emails. I've had guys go behind my back to gather information and then try to use it against me or to trap me. It can be as harmless as asking my friend for my number after I've repeatedly refused to give him my number. Or as stalkerish as finding out when I was back in town from the holidays and alleging that I couldn't use the excuse that I was out of town that week to avoid hanging out with him.

It's pretty violating. When someone obtains information about you without your consent, it just feels wrong. So I make it a point to render the same level of respect for the guy's privacy I would expect for myself. So if the guy's email inbox is open on his computer screen, I avert my eyes. With facebook, myspace, etc., I reason that it's information the guy voluntarily put out there. Tho no doubt, I'd be mortified if the guy found out I looked him up.

So yeah. My point is, certainly, women can be psycho. Crazy and psycho. Clearly.

That is the question

I occasionally am seized with this debilitating perception of men. That they are selfish, hedonistic and enslaved to their cars and penises. That they are only as faithful as their options. That if confronted with a woman who is slightly thinner, funnier or bendier, they will dump their current for the better model. They will trade up because they can. They are detached, and to them love is in inverse proportion to the boredom their penis has with the same vagina.

This is the jaded cynical side of me who's perceiving this. That men are binary animals who can rise above their animal instincts, and choose not to.

Then there's the romantic hopeful side of me that thinks there's something more ethereal to a relationship between a man and a woman.That when that It is there (that four lettered word), it perseveres and binds, it outruns Pavlov's dog and outflies Darwin's birds, and all the others are just that -- others -- Existent but irrelevant.

Can someone who has no faith in something she can't see because she can't see it (God) have faith in something else she can't see (_ _ _ _)?

Some of the contents of my desk drawer at work:

o Colgate toothpaste
o Toothbrush
o Cetaphil
o Ibuprofen
o Wal-Tussin DM
o Pepto-Bismol
o Powder compact
o Eye shadow
o Tampons

I could literally live here.

Ditto

The other evening, he said to me, "Yellow Gal. In case you can't tell, I really like you."

I got that tingly tickly feeling inside my chest. It was so tingly and tickly it almost hurt. But instead of reciprocating the sentiment, I could only say "You do?"

I'm such a wuss.

In the Beginning

My good friend just underwent a painful breakup with her boyfriend. It wasn't painful in that it was a five-year relationship that ended with him cheating on her with her best friend. It was painful in that it was slow and certain. I could see it coming a few weeks ago. That gradual distancing where it takes longer and longer for him to call her back. Where he initiates less and less contact, and doesn't quite suggest plans as much as he used to. Then he just stopped calling her. Ignored her calls. Refused to respond to her emails. Until finally she emailed him saying, "Just give me a time to pick up my stuff." Only THEN he responded:

Sorry it has to end this way. I'll be around 10 am tomorrow.

Best,
Asshole

My response, predictably, was "What the FUCK." How can a guy, only a month ago, say "I'm falling for you," and then turn around and pull this bull shit? I want to find this guy and maim him with a pair of garden-variety garden scissors and a blow torch. Nevermind the fact that he's 6'2, can bench press 300 pounds, and is a former Navy SEAL. I can take him.

In all seriousness, I feel badly for my friend, because that was such a lame and disrespectful way to break up with someone. And, as you all know, I am oh-so-familiar with that painful and slow disappearing act of a guy. What is it about directly dumping a gal that makes it so unpalatable that a guy would rather incur the wrath and hate of all of her girlfriends and be an asshole rather than just say, "This was great, but it's not going to work"?

I'll save that dead horse for another day.

So my point with all this is, in the Beginning, it is always da bomb. The Beginning is always great. Every idea or interest or tv show you mention is a new thing you have in common. You can't keep your hands off of each other, and when you're not together, you're distracted by memories of last Friday, last Saturday and last Sunday. In every relationship, no matter how shitty it Ended, the Beginning was always great.

With my friend and her asshole ex-boyfriend, the Beginning was perfect. She had said to me, "I never met anyone I have connected with on so many levels. Intellectually, emotionally, physically, politically. It's almost eerie." And he said as much too. This was It. The search was over.

But that was just the Beginning. The Icky Middle came. And then the End.

As you all know, I always get uber-excited about a new guy. But in the wake of my friend's break-up, I am much more hesitant in getting too excited. Even in my past relationships, the Beginnings were great -- before all the fights, the recycled arguments, the resentment, the unresolved issues that could never be resolved, the stonewalling, the passive aggression, the lameness.

The End is inevitable in every relationship. Well, except the one with the One you end up with.

Right now, I'm having a wonderful time with the boyfriend. I feel a tiny part of myself wondering if this is It, or if this is just the Beginning soon to be followed by a painful End. YEAHYEAH I know I can't know and I won't know until "I just know," and that there's no point in mulling over something I have no control over.

It's just freaky how deceptive Beginnings can be. Because they're always so wonderful.

Irrational thought of the day

Just now, I was thinking about my ex-boyfriend from X years ago, and how, aside from some fundamental problems, he's a really good guy and would make a great husband and father. And I was thinking, one day, he would inevitably be someone's husband and the father of someone's children. And that someone would not be me.

And then suddenly I felt a twinge of...something.

And I realized it. Even though I have zero interest in him, that I have zero desire to ever get back with him, and that I am 100% sure we could never work out as a couple, a part of me wants him to stay single and not get married. A part of me wants him to want me.

What the F is up with that?

It's incredibly narcissistic. And probably some other dysfunctional adjective. And hello, I have a boyfriend now. So what the F?

Dirty little secret

I have a guilty pleasure. It's hard for someone my age to admit. But I will. I like bad pop music.

I realize that to most people my age, "bad pop music" is redundant. None of my friends listen to today's pop stations anymore. None of them keep up with the top 40 hits. But I do. For example, I like the new Britney Spears song, "Gimme More." Yes, you just read that correctly. I think it's catchy. And I also like the Fergie song "Clumsy."

I understand that this guilty pleasure is an indictment of my intelligence, character, and humanity. Today's pop music is utterly devoid of any artistic value or originality. But I find it all very fergilicious.

Come on, don't we all have one dirty little secret we take pleasure in? Some people love gossip columns and magazines like Us and Hello!. Others have addictions to shows like Jerry Springer and the Maury Povich Show.

I like bad pop music. Don't get me wrong, I also like good quality stuff. I mean, who can forget the hits of Right Said Fred and RuPaul? (I'm kidding. Sort of.)

Anyway, this is my confession. That's just The Way I Are.

OkayOkay

So it's been a while since I've blogged. I've had a bit going on, though nothing too crazy. I suppose the biggest thing is that ... Friends Zone Guy is now my boyfriend.

Yes, boyfriend.

I italicize "boyfriend" because that label is so foreign to me. I haven't had a boyfriend in five years. FIVE years. Yes, I've had random dates and short-term pseudo-relationships. And certainly all of these encounters have been fodder for my blog entries. But it's been a while since I've had a boyfriend. The idea of having a boyfriend and being someone's girlfriend is just ... weird. Naturally I approach it all with some trepidation.

Here we go.

The bandwagon is fun

I just got a blue iPod nano. The world is now on mute.

Busted

So yes, he did call me. Finally. Geez. Anyway, he called me, and we were chatting and then he mentioned in passing some fashion show I was in during college. I never told him I was in that fashion show; in fact, I'm incredibly embarrassed I was in it and try my best to hide that part of my past. It was a traditional Yellow fashion show. It wasn't my culture I was embarrased about--just my outfit: an unflattering, fluttery, bright abomination of Yellow culture.

As I shuddered from the mortifying memory of my costume, the question suddenly occurred to me. "How did you know I was in that show?" I asked.

"Oh. I saw it on your college website's news archives."

I gasped. I remembered the article well. There embedded among the stilted text was a picture of me, half smiling, cheeks pudgy from my well-earned freshmen fifteen, wearing what could only be described as a Yellow muu muu. I recoiled in horror. He had seen me at my worst and read about it. "Wait a second." I thought about it. "Did you google me?"

"Uh. Yeah."

I gasped again. He GOOGLED me, folks! I felt so e-violated. Yes, more so because he had read the article on my fashion show and also saw a horrid picture of me. But also. I was googled! Googled against my will!

"Stalker!" I gasped, laughing.

"What?" he said innocently. "You've never googled me?"

"No!" I exclaimed.

"I'm hurt," he said woundedly.

"Whatevs, stalker."

In case the reader can't tell, I'm half kidding. I mean, okay, I was a bit freaked out that he googled me, saw me at my lowest moment, and openly told me about it. But. Well. As the Naysayer said to me when I regaled him with this tale, "You know you were happy he googled you. Admit it."

I laughed.

"And," the Naysayer added, "who are you to talk?"

Okay. Now, while I never googled the guy, I did "look him up" on, um, well, okay, friendster, myspace and facebook, to name a few. Of course I never told him, and if he had installed sitemeter or some other monitoring device on any of his webpages, I would have been so busted as both a stalker and a hypocrite.

But he didn't.

Anyway, calling him a stalker 93 times is the only way I can stave off his ridiculing me on the picture he espied of the abominable Yellow Gal. Ugh. So mortified. And violated. And mortified.

Beating a dead horse

I googled "why isn't he calling me." Here was an an article aptly entitled Why Doesn't He Call Me? below:

Do you have a man that doesn't call you or return your calls? There could be many reasons why. Here are some ideas so you can figure out why he might not be calling you.

The Game

Some guys play the game when they start dating somebody. They don't want to come off as too desperate, so they will not call you for a few days. This usually occurs over a couple of days or so. It's completely normal and can actually mean the guy cares about keeping you around. If it spans more than a couple of days though, it's overkill, and the guy is probably not worth your time.

Players

Your man might be a player if he calls you to go out, then afterwards you don't hear from him again for 2 weeks to a month. He calls again wanting another date. He has other priorities and only considers you to be something to fall back on when he has nobody else available. Spin it around and never return his phone calls.

Boyfriends

If your man is officially your boyfriend, he should be calling you at least once per day on average. Being too busy is no excuse. Everybody should have at least 5 minutes to say hello to their girlfriend. Kick him to the curb if he can't make time.

Busy Job?

If he has a busy job, any man should have at least 5 minutes of time to just say "Hey!" Many men use their jobs as an excuse to not have to call while living it up with the boys. Be careful, he might legitimately not be able to get to a phone if he travels a lot, but chances are you're just not important enough for him to care about. You deserve a man that's not too busy for you.

Online Chat

Chatting can be considered equivalent to a phone call. Many people now prefer chat over a phone call because they can multitask on their computer while they converse. It is also much cheaper than a phone call. Don't expect as many phone calls if you are able to chat with him.

Use your best judgement. There is no one answer as to why your man isn't calling you. However, if you feel you are being reasonable as to how much you require your man to call you and you are still uncomfortable, you might want to reconsider why you're with him. Move on to somebody else that will call you and give you the security.

Ok. I think I know all of this already. I just like to pretend that I don't.

Bad Asian

Is it bad that I like the song, "Kung Fu Fighting"? I can't help it, every time I hear it, I laugh. Who can resist lyrics like "funky Chinamen"?

I'm a bad Asian, I know.

Unbelievable

The dude hasn't called me yet. Unbelievable! Okay it is believable. Still though. What the f.

But it's okay. I feel better now knowing that I'm going to bump into Yellow Laywer in Las Vegas in November. Woo hoo!

Crazy dumb ass

I have many habits. For example, I have to walk around my apartment while brushing my teeth. I can never just stand in front of the mirror, I must walk around. Another example is that I have to close my closet door before I fall asleep. If I'm in bed and about to doze off, but notice the closet door is ajar, I will get up and close it.

Anyway, I just realized today that I have another habit. Yes, it's a boy-related habit. Whenever I'm waiting for a guy to call me, I will inevitably think/yell every five minutes, "Why the fuck hasn't he called me yet?" Then like clockwork I pick up my cell phone, flip it open to ensure that (1) I didn't miss any calls, and (2) it is indeed turned on. Then when my phone rings, I gasp in excitement, and then sigh in disappointment when I see it's someone else.

Friends, when a girl picks up the phone with that "Oh, it's just you"-tone of voice, chances are, she's waiting for a call from a guy she went on a date with two days ago and hasn't heard from yet.

In sum

In un-Yellow Gal-like fashion, I will keep this short and devoid of neurosis. The date was "good." Food, then jazz show, then drinks. He walked me to my door. And kissed me. Good kisser.

Now I'm waiting for his call. If he calls. We'll see!

Sad headline

I just read in the Times that Luciano Pavoratti passed away. And it made me really sad.

It's not that I was a huge Pavoratti fan, much less an opera fan. I just kind of grew up with Pavoratti in the background in the 80s. He was a rare instance of me and my parents' simultaneous recognition and appreciation of the same celebrity. And while I wasn't an avid watcher of his performances, I always found him to be charming.

Very sad and almost shocking. My condolences to the bereaved.

One of the causes of insomnia

is giddiness.

I had him at hi

Okay okay. So I followed one of Whatchamacalit's pieces of advice and decided, what the hey, I'll contact Friends Zone guy and casually ask him to "just hang out." Nothing more, nothing less. If he "rejects" me, it'll be like that between friends, so no pressure, right?

Right?

Well it took me about five hours to type "Hi" in an email. It started with an "H." Then I would delete the "H." Then I'd type it again. Then I wrote "i." Okay I'm exaggerating, but you get my point. I had no idea why it was so hard for me to just contact him. I guess, first, I never ask guys out. And second, I really liked him. But we're "just friends" so asking a friend to hang out is so not a big deal.

So I wrote my casual email. It said: "Hi. Do you like live jazz?" This email was supposed to segue into a string of emails where I would eventually ask him to go hear a local jazz band playing Saturday evening. Saturday was my only free evening for the next couple of weeks, and I had hoped I'd be spending it with him. Soon after I hit "send," I saw a response in my inbox.

His response: "No."

Nothing more, nothing less. My heart sank, and I felt very very very stupid. Instead of stopping the bleeding, I replied: "Oh? Why not?"

And I waited. And waited. Nothing appeared in my inbox. Oh my god he's dissing me. He's never going to respond. I'm such an idiot! Why did I email him? This is what I get for breaking The Rules. That f-ing Friends Zone. I suck. Oh well, lesson learned, next!!

Then he replied: "I'm just not a huge live jazz fan. I'm more into the indie stuff. Here's a link to an example of a band I like."

I clicked on the link and listened to some samples. Good stuff. I replied and said as much.

His response: "They're in town this Saturday. Wanna check it out?"

At this point, I literally squealed at my computer. "Sure," I replied. "When and where?"

We ironed out the details; and now he's picking me up Saturday night. Ack! I'm both excited and scared and happy and nervous.

So yeah, I was all freaked out about asking him out, and he ended up asking me out. On Saturday night.

We'll see what happens!

The dreaded Zone

I'm in a bit of a predicament. It's about this guy. (It always is, isn't it?) I've known him for about two years now. We've bumped into each other at various professional events, chit chatted and nothing more. I never really thought much of him other than an easy-going, funny guy. In the last few months, I started to get the feeling he might be interested in me. I hung out with him in a group once and my girlfriend who was there confirmed she thought he liked me. Later that week he emailed me and asked me to hang out. Just us.

I wasn't interested in him in that way. He was fun to chat with, but he's not...shall we say...traditionally handsome. One of my girlfriends rated him, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being butt ugly, 5 being average and 10 being perfect, a "2." Another girlfriend bluntly said he didn't even make the scale. So, needless to say, he ain't Brad Pitt.

Anyhow, I had to make it clear to him he was in the Friends Zone, that dreaded category of guys who are really sweet and sensitive but whom the girl will never sleep with. So when he asked me to hang out after work, I suggested lunch instead. When he called me later and left a voicemail saying he just wanted to see how I was doing, I never returned his call. YES it was rude but I believed it was necessary to demarcate the boundaries of the Zone. Afterwards, I never affirmatively contacted him; it was always he contacting me.

So that was that. Friends Zone boundaries have been clearly marked. Everything is hunky dory now, right?

Right?

Last Thursday, he emailed me asking me to go to an outdoor art fair on Sunday. I had plans with a girlfriend Sunday evening, so I replied that I'd run it by my friend and maybe we'd stop by (again, reiterating the Friends Zone by bringing along a friend).

Later that same day, I was having an after work drink with my girlfriend (the one who said the guy didn't even make the scale), and we were talking about boys. As I sipped my vodka cranberry, I began to muse over the various guys I've met and dated this past year. Then I thought about the Friends Zone guy. "You know," I said, "if he were just a little bit cuter, I might actually like him. You know?"

She looked at me warily. "Uh huh..." she nodded slowly while stirring her drink with her black stirrer.

I took another sip and thought about it more. "I mean, he's funny, smart, laid-back," I added. "He's pretty cool."

She continued to look at me warily. "I think," I said hesitantly, "I think...on some level...I...actually...might--" her head strained forward at this point "--you know. On some level."

She put her glass down. "Wow," she said, staring at me. "For you to overlook completely someone's physical appearance and like someone solely based on personality -- that shows what a good person you are." She lifted her glass again. "Wow," she repeated.

I couldn't help but laugh. It was supposed to be a compliment, but it showed how hideous she thought this guy was.

Afterwards, as I sat on the train home, I thought about him. And then it hit me. (Like a train, no less.) Maybe I did like him. What was holding me back? There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, I always felt really comfortable around him, good, even. And he made me laugh.

No no no no, I thought to myself, it's the vodka talking. You'll wake up and this'll be just a drunk thought.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thought I had was of him. Not just a thought, but a dreamy giddy happy thought. Crap! I thought to myself, I do f-ing like him! What now?!This never happened to me, a guy friend "growing" on me. Well, okay once. My last boyfriend.

I went to work, still startled by my recent epiphany. My girlfriend emailed me saying she would pass on the art exhibit "but have fun!" So I emailed the guy and said I'd go.

Sunday arrived. And it came time to decide what I was going to wear. T shirt and jeans? Tank top and capris? Or cute strapless summer dress that brushed against my thighs? Hmm. I realized I must have liked him because I went with choice C.

We met at the art fair entrance and he came armed with a couple of small bottles of red wine. "BYOB," he said to me as he tapped the cloth bag holding the Cabernet. "Cool," I said. How did he know I liked red wine better than white wine?

We walked amongst the paintings, sketches, abstract sculptures and jewelry, musing over whether or not we could replicate the art ourselves.

"I could totally do that," he said to a pile of dirt on the floor. He looked at the price tag. "And for $900 a pile, that ain't too bad."

"But you don't get it," I said. "The 'latent earth' is arranged in a certain way. There's an energy to its randomness."

He looked at me. "Yellow Gal, it's a pile of dirt on the floor."

I laughed. "You have no vision," I insisted.

"Dirt is dirt. Now that is art," he said pointing to a Monet-esque landscape.

"Fine," I relented.

We walked for a bit more and then sat down at a park bench to sip on our little wine bottles. He pulled out a container of Cheez-It crackers. "Instead of cheese and crackers, I brought cheese crackers," he explained with a nod. I couldn't help but laugh.

"Drinking wine from a bottle on a bench, very classy," I said as I unscrewed the cap of my wine bottle.

"Yeah, the only things we need are some newspapers and a shopping cart full of garbage bags."

"Mocking the poor, I like it," I nodded. "Cheers," I said, holding up my bottle. "Cheers," he responded, and we clinked our bottles.

I had an amazing time with him. We cracked each other up over the most random stuff. And I discovered we had a few more things in common. I felt so much more attracted to him. Crap, I thought to myself, now I really really like him.

As the day waned and the artists began packing up their exhibits, he turned to me and asked, "Are you hungry? I could go for some Yellow food."

I gasped. Not only did he know my preference for red wine over white, but he also tapped into my ultimate weakness: Yellow food. My own comfort food. And while he wasn't exactly my shade of Yellow, I knew he wasn't just fronting like he liked it, because he started rattling off specific dishes that only a true fan of the cuisine could know. I was impressed. And even more enamored.

"I so wish I could, but I'm meeting up with my girlfriend for dinner," I said, truly disappointed.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to Yellow Town anyway."

"But she lives right around there, maybe I'll go with you for a bit before I meet her?"

"Oh-kay," he said. Yes, I was making it pretty obvious that I wanted to hang out with him more.

So we took the train to Yellow Town and as we walked towards our particular restaurant destination, we saw a long line.

"Argh, there's a line." I looked at my watch. "I have to meet her in an hour, so I guess I'll just start walking to her place."

"Okay," he said. Then he walked alongside me in that direction.

"Oh, are you walking me?" I asked. "It's a bit away."

"Only until I see another place for food."

He ended up walking me to her place. Two miles. He stopped at her apartment lobby and looked at me. "This was cool," he said.

"Yeah," I said smiling stupidly. I had no idea what the F to do. I suddenly felt like a moron.

"Okay, see ya," he waved.

"Oh, okay, bye," I responded and waved.

And that was that.

Now I feel totally clueless. If this were purely a dating situation, I'd wait to hear from him. But I had previously demarcated the Friends Zone. How to un-demarcate short of wearing a sign that says "Do me"? What if he's lost interest? My friends defined the art fair outing as a date. It certainly felt like one. But was it?

It's so funny. Before when I talked to him, I was so lackadaisical. And now that I actually like him, I'm completely anxious, and I'm scouring my flimsy repertoire of dating knowledge to figure out what to do next.

Why did it take me this long to realize that I liked him? Did I like him all along or did it just hit me when I put it together that one night?

Who knows. I just hope I didn't F this one up.

Predicted M.O. of this guy I met this past weekend

John thought he was pretty smooth. Not just smooth. But pretty smooth.

John did not have a black book, but a BlackBerry. In it were many names, ranging from A (Ana, the Latina goddess he met at a club) to Z (Zoey, the feisty bohemian he met at a political rally).

When he texted a cutesy message like "Good morning :-)" or "How you doing, cutie?" none of the female recipients had any idea that the message was simply a mass text to a group list entitled "TL," which meant "The Ladies." A flurry of responses came in a row, ranging from the innocuous "G'morning hun ;)" to "Fuck me if I'm wrong, but it's Tuesday, right?"

It was Friday.

He laughed to himself as he scrolled through the TL responses. Of course he got away with it. Girls were so easy to manipulate. They almost want to be lied to, especially by men like him who were tall, blonde and athletic. Inevitably, after week 2, each of the girls would ask the same question: "Are you dating other girls?"

"No," he'd lie with a wry smile. "You're the only girl for me." And he could discern the relief in their voices as they weakly smiled, "Oh, okay."

Women were so stupid. Even the intelligent ones were stupid. John didn't like to mess with the lipsticked ditzes. Those were "SL." "Starter Ladies" for his earlier days in college. As he got older, he needed a challenge. And so after business school, he delved into the yuppie pool of bankers, lawyers, consultants, and the like.

He soon learned that they were strikingly similar to the gorgeous trashy girls he banged in college. All girls had the same insecurities, no matter how many many degrees or titles they had to their name. They all wanted to be told they were beautiful. They all wanted to be special. They all wanted him.

He almost felt sorry for them all, especially after having sex with them ("making love" is what some of these girls called it -- did people still use that phrase?). But not enough to stop. After all, this was pretty fun. And he always got away with it. Always.

Yep, he was pretty smooth. Not just smooth. But pretty smooth.

Ick

So I just saw the 2007 version of "Hairspray," the musical movie. I couldn't help but think the teeny bopper heartthrob, Link Larkin (played by Zac Efron), was so cute. Like, really really cute.

Then I googled him and learned that he was born in 1987.

1987!

I suddenly felt like a pedophile, longing for and looking up internet pictures of a boy who's 19 years old.

Ick.

August blues

So I want a vacation. This is how I envision my conversation with my boss(es) will be:

"I want a vacation."

"Sorry, we have 983 things going on for the next ten months. So that's a no-go."

"If I don't take a vacation soon, I will have a breakdown and subsequently commit suicide."

"Sorry, we don't really have time to accommodate your 'idiosyncrasies.' "

"I will cite you and this job as the reasons for my suicide in my suicide note."

"Make sure you proofread for typos. Remember that last brief you wrote? Tsk tsk."

"As long as you can come to my funeral."

"We'll see if it conflicts with anything on our calendars."

_______________

Seriously. I think it might go like that.

I'm so depressed.

A break

I think I need a break. Everything is starting to get to me. Everyone is starting to annoy me. The city is beginning to grate on my nerves, and I think I've just been in a city environment for way too long.

I need to go somewhere where firetrucks, ambulances and police car sirens aren't blaring every other hour, at 3 am, 5 am, 7 am, and so on. Where people aren't walking too slowly when you need to get somewhere in five minutes. Where cars don't honk their horns at you and drivers don't yell "fuck you" when you have the right of way. Where plans with people, checklists at work, piles of laundry, unanswered emails, and unreturned phone calls don't continuously weigh upon you with each passing second.

I want to drop everything and go away. A lightly-sanded beach with aqua water with nobody except a personal bartender/masseur at my beck and call. I want to breathe in air that smells like the sea, free of car exhaust and horse shit and stale Marlboro Lights. I want to exhale and feel light and unburdened and free.

I need a break. Or else I'll break.

"There's someone I want to you to meet."

Words that every single girl will inevitably hear. Words that every single girl will inevitably loathe. I was having lunch with Shannon, a former co-worker, when she uttered these words to me.

"Oh really?" I asked.

"His name's Nick. He's fun and smart and cool," she gushed. "I hung out with him in a group a couple weeks ago. I think you'll really like him."

My receptiveness to meeting someone depends on the purveyor of the words. Shannon was cool, a little bit on the alternative bohemian side. She typically dyed her hair a different color every six months. Today, her hair was strawberry blonde, and she wore a floral dress with black combat boots. On anyone else, the get-up would make the wearer look like she was trying too hard. On Shannon, it worked.

While Shannon knew me for only a year, I suspected she knew me well enough to not introduce me to some random lame-o off the street. So with her stamp of approval, I said, sure, why not, let's all hang out in a group and see what happens.

Shannon set up an "after-work thing" where we'd all meet up. I knew she was also inviting her other girlfriend, Pam, another strawberry blonde (but natural), whom I had seen on Shannon's myspace page and heard about through Shannon.

I met up with Shannon at her office, and we walked together to the bar where Pam and Nick were. I saw Pam who smiled, and I returned her smile. Then I saw Nick. And suddenly, I became embarrassed.

Nick was Asian. "Oriental." And not only that, but he was very fobby. I looked at his "Members Only" jacket and ribbed tank top underneath. And perhaps I could have forgiven his fashionlessness if it weren't for that thing growing out of his neck. His head.

Nick bore an uncanny resemblance to Random Task, the Korean villain, on Austin Powers.

I was so embarrassed. So. Embarrassed.

Shannon beamed as she introduced me to Nick, looking at me, then to him, then to me. I sat down, swallowing my mortification, and smiled and ordered a martini. As I sipped my drink, I totally hit it off with Pam, who cracked me up with her scathing wit. With Nick though, it was different. I couldn't communicate with him. Literally.

His words were coated with a thick accent. He had to repeat his jokes three to four times before I could first decipher what he was saying and then decipher why the joke was remotely funny. He also snorted when he laughed and had a serious dandruff problem.

So embarrassing.

Did Shannon think that just because we were both Asian we would automatically hit it off? That because he was remotely nice and not a complete moron and we had a "common background" we were automatic soulmates?

Sensing my revulsion, Shannon attempted to do some damage control. During one of Nick's bathroom breaks, she leaned over to me and said, "Oh, I hope you don't think I was trying to set you up! He's a really nice guy."

I feigned a smile. "Oh, of course." I let her off on a technicality. She never explicitly said, "I'm setting you up with this guy for romantic purposes only." She just said there was someone she wanted me to meet. That's all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The night ended without incident. As we bid our farewells, Nick shook my hand and said, "Nice meeting you."

I looked at Shannon and then back at Nick. Through a gritted smile, I replied, "Nice meeting you too."

3 thoughts of the day

1. Philosophical thought of the day

I just began reading the book, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," by Milan Kundera, a souvenir from a brief relationship with a guy several years ago. Actually, he lent it to me because it was his favorite book and I've since stowed it in my modest book collection and haven't returned it since. Oops.

One passage I liked:

Was it better to be with Tereza or to remain alone?

There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself.

My less than sophisticated reaction to this passage: "Totally!" All of us don't know what the f we're doing. Every time we do something or make a choice, we don't know for sure how it'll turn out until we do it. And when we do it and the consequences ensue, it's not like we can say "Okay that was an enlightening test run. Note to self: Do not marry a guy after knowing him for less than 2 days and hand over your bank account information. Let's relive that portion of my life!" I guess they're right when they say "Life is not a dress rehearsal."

2. Unsaintly thought of the day

I was watching tv while slurping on warm udon noodles. A Levitra commercial came on. A bunch of forty-to-sixty-something-year old men wearing flannel shirts or polos talked about their ED and how you should talk to your doctor about Levitra. Then at the end of the commercial, the voiceover did its usual "Symptoms include..." spiel. Then the voiceover said, "If your erection lasts more than four hours, call a doctor." I dropped my chopsticks and the wet noodles plopped into their stew.

If your erection lasts more than four hours, call me.

3. Dumbass thought of the day

Or rather, non-thought. I got into the elevator today and pressed "31." As the doors were closing, a tall man slipped in through the doors and pressed "33." He seemed to be mesmerized by his Blackberry. I took the opportunity to blatantly check him out as he scrolled through his Blackberry intently. He donned a dark pinstriped suit that smoothed neatly over his lean build, and had wavy brown hair and a sharp jawline.

I was still staring at him when the elevator doors opened and dinged. He looked up and said, "That's your floor."

"What?" I said, excited he was talking to me.

"Your floor. 31," he said, gesturing with his Blackberry towards the hallway.

"Oh, right, right," I said, gathering myself. "I was distracted by the news," I explained, tilting my head towards the little screen above the buttons, bearing today's weather and headlines. He looked back at his Blackberry. I exited the elevator.

"I am such a loser," I thought to myself as I ambled towards my office.
____________

And that's it for today. A book, a commercial and an elevator ride. Who knows what crazy adventures face Yellow Gal tomorrow! Stay tuned.

The End #823,046,683

I ended things with the shy guy recently. In fact, I barely had to say anything. He just guessed what I was about to say. When I confirmed his suspicion, he did something unprecedented: He was totally classy.

I have this unfair stereotype of guys as having very fragile egos, no matter how much money they make, how many girls they sleep with, whatever. Their egos are particularly vulnerable when it comes to women. And so, the guys I have come to know and regret -- upon the demise of something -- usually bristle, lash out, and act like babies with responses such as "My friends didn't like you anyway," "Whatever, I was going to dump you yesterday but I was busy getting all these other girls' numbers," and the like.

The shy guy however did not take that route. He told me he thought I was a 'wonderful person,' said he wished we could have lasted longer, and wished me the best. He also said he enjoyed the time we did spend together and has no regrets.

And it didn't feel like he was just giving lip service. I think he meant it. How refreshing it is to end something with a guy on good terms with respect. And how sad it is that he probably represents 0.0000000000001% of the single male population. If only all break-ups could end this well.

Oh, Age

Age is not just a number.

Age is in direct proportion to the number of times a store clerk or cashier will call you Ma'am instead of Miss.

Age is in inverse proportion to the number of times you get carded at a bar, restaurant or club.

Age is in direct proportion to the number of people who will give up their handicapped-only seats for you on the bus.

...

Age however has no correlation with how much a gal knows about boys and dealings with boys.

Thanks for nothing, Age.

Supersize me

My yellow pal and I were at a club. My yellow pal and I were drunk. My yellow pal made me pinky swear that, after she lost 15 pounds, she and I would both get body art done the next time we were in Vegas, and go out clubbing in our body art.

Body art can take many forms. The form my pal was specifically referring to was the kind where you get topless and some dude paints some flowers or something on your top (i.e. your boobs) so you are artfully "covered." But in reality you are topless. Topless with flowers painted on your boobs with some vines and leaves on your shoulders and arms. Example of a chick in a "shirt":


That alone is pretty crazy for me. But there's more.

The next time we are in Vegas is for the Annual National Asian Pacific American Bar Association Convention. In other words, a bunch of Asian American lawyers from all over the country will convene in the City of Sin to take seminars and network with other Asian American lawyers.

My friend (also a lawyer) wants us to go clubbing in Vegas (undoubtedly where some of these lawyers will be), topless with body art on our boobs.

As my buzz wore off, I started thinking. "Uh, you want to go topless in front of other lawyers?" I asked.

"What, it's art!" she responded. I immediately thought of how a "Hustler Magazine" photographer would similarly argue regarding a picture of a naked 21-year-old cheerleader spread eagle. "It'll be fun!" she added, swaying.

"Yeah, but I don't want the general counsel of General Electric or a federal judge to see lilies on my breasts. Don't you think that vision would affect their perception of us as professionals? That instead of taking us seriously as intelligent, serious attorneys, they'd see us as skanks with lilies painted on their nipples?"

"No, why would they?" she asked. "We're out clubbing. Just having fun. It's Vegas."

I really didn't know what else to say. Seeing that I was less than persuaded, she added, "You pinky swore! So now you have to do it!"

Crap, I thought to myself. The only thing I could think of was hope that she was so drunk that she'd forget our pinky swear. Or hope that she'd let me reneg on our pinky swear in light of the don't-want-to-jeopardize-my-legal-career argument. Or hope that she'd believe me when I say I found this diet that emphasized a hamburger-and-fries-based regiment.

God help me if I ever become this psycho

A friend just forwarded me the below exchanges of email. So funny. And so sad.

---

Friends, Some of you may remember by ex-girlfriend Sarah. I recently received a letter from her. I would appreciate it if you would take the time to read it and review my response. I hope all of you are well.

>>>May 23, 2005

Dear Davey:

I have had a difficult time, over the past few years, achieving closure of our relationship. It is time for me to seek this. I have gone through the appropriate stages of anger, remorse, sadness. It is now time for me to close this chapter of my life. I am trying to recapture my life and gain a sense of identity back.

In my professional life I have done this, but my personal life struggles. For so long I/We were "Sarah and Davey", that it is hard to gain my own identity back. I am not worried about my career; I will soon succeed even my wildest dreams. I am just stunted by my personal life.

I am ready to release you from my life. I also on a weekly basis encounter people who want to tell me about you or have a discussion about you. I do not want to deal with this anymore. I do have a proposal on how to handle this.

I am ready to no longer be forced to deal with your presence. As to how to deal with it, I propose the following:

1. I've heard you have an apartment on the West side. You need to move out of the West side of Indianapolis, this has always been my side of town, I own a house here, and do not rent like you. I grew up here, and always want to live here. I would prefer if you were to leave Indianapolis all together, but I know this is more than I can ask.I do not want to risk running into you at any store.

2. We should officially divide our friends. Particularly Jim, Jillian, Amy, and Ed. You should write them, thanking them for the opportunity to be their friend and explain why you can no longer be in contact with them. I can provide you with addresses, if you need.

3. I will stay out of Republican politics. I promise not to get involved with any Republican politics, unless my father runs for judge, and than I reserve the right to work on his campaign.

4. I would like you to not have anything to do with all things Cathedral. I feel I should have ownership of the school since my mother works there and my brother and sisters went there. You are more tied to Wabash. This should be where you dedicate your alumni status. I will be involved in Cathedral. When the time of reunions comes up, I am willing to say that you can have the reunions ending in "0" years and I will take the"5" years. So you can have 10 years and I will take25 years.

5. I will avoid Wabash contacts. The few guys from the house I still speak to on a rare basis, I will not. I will also discourage any male offspring I have from attending Wabash.

I know some of these things seem a bit harsh, but I feel they are for the best. I do not ever really wish to see you again. I know that this will of course happen beyond my control, but I think we should do our best to avoid what we can.

It is my sincere hope that you understand, and do take the time to respond. This is my last request of you.

With fondness,

Sarah

_______________
>>>May 31, 2005

Dear Sarah,

Thanks for your letter. We broke up 3 years ago. Knowing that and taking into consideration you believe me to be a cold, career focused, ego-maniac, what on earth makes you think I would take the time to think about you or agree to your proposal? But since I clearly have taken the time to respond, please take a moment to review some comments and counterproposals I have crafted.

1. First, I will have to resist the burning urge to move RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO YOU. After that deep desire subsides, I will vacate the Westside and return to my roots: The Snooty Northside, as you used to call it. However, since I was born on the Northside and I have Northside in my veins you must abdicate all ties to the North. This includes: Living on the Northside, living on the Northeastside, walking down North Street, being a fan of the Dallas Stars (formerly the Minnesota North Stars), wearing North Face apparel or telling your children that Santa lives at the North Pole.

1 (B). I was born in Indianapolis before you were so I should really get to determine who stays and who goes. In my benevolence I will let you exist here only within the St. Michael's Parish boundary (MLK Dr. to High School Rd. and 56th Street to 10th St.) We will call this the SarahZone. This should be acceptable for you as your family lives across the street and there is a gas station, grocery, convenience store, your place of employment and a fire station. Exceptions can be made with my expressed written consent. You will be required to display a large tag in your windshield giving you permission to travel beyond the SarahZone.

2. I haven't talked to your friends since we broke up. I think they got the message. However since we apparently are still in fourth grade, please have your friends meet me by the playground at recess so that I can tell them they have big fat heads and they aren't my friends anymore.

Do you agree? _______Yes ________No________Maybe

2 (B). One of the few times you let us do something fun, we visited some of my family friends on Geist. It was about eight years ago. We enjoyed their boat and home for several hours during a pre-500 party. Please jot them a note saying you are going to forget that ever happened. Please also offer to reimburse them for the boat gas, pool chlorine, air conditioning Freon, Dr. Pepper and anything else you consumed while you were there. I don't have their address anymore, you can look it up.

3. Please let me know when your father runs for anything. I'm going to run against him.

3 (B). Thanks for staying out of Republican politics. Your heavyweight presence in the party will be sorely missed. I am very involved in ice hockey. I play recreationally and coach a youth team in the winter. I would prefer it if you could stop being involved in all things related to ice and ice hockey . You can use those instant first aid coldpaks to cool your drinks from now on. Also, my parents have been very involved with the Indianapolis 500 Festival for nearly 20 years. The month of May is really a big month for us. While I am not able to honor your request of moving out of Indianapolis, I would ask that you just leave town during May. With 250,000 fans going to the race and 35,000 runners in the Mini-Marathon, I don't want to run the risk of bumping into you. I know your birthday is in May, but man, I just don't care.

4. Christ, I don't have the energy for this one.

5. If any of my friends from Wabash actually still talk to you, they are fired as friends.

5 (B). I'm not going to tell my kids anything about you. But speaking of kids, it would be okay with me if my son was a crack addict, just as long as he got your kids hooked on it and became their dealer.

In closing, I will never make decisions about my life or my family based on whether I might run into you at the store. I am now convinced that if we ever do bump into each other, you will spontaneously combust. I wish you the best of luck find a spouse.

Seriously. It won't be easy to find a person who is willing to spend the rest of his life raising children and making decisions based on your crazy-ass proposal to an ex-boyfriend and your inability to act like a rational human being.

All my best,

Davey

---

Seriously people. If I ever become Sarah, shoot me. Hold me down and shoot me.

The Naysayer

called me just now for the sole purpose of telling me that the following quote from "Scrubs" reminded him of my interactions with the shy/nerdy guy:

[In response to a particularly bad joke]

"You would hear crickets chirping, but they were too uncomfortable about just how unfunny that actually was."

I'm saying that the next time the shy guy makes a bad joke. Is that mean?

Why is it always something

So, as what inevitably happens to all relationships I have had thus far, the one with the shy guy appears to be nearing its demise, as explained in my post below. I questioned myself as to whether I'm being too picky. Self-sabotaging -- in other words, look for tiny minor flaws to avoid a real relationship. But I don't think so. The shy guy's nerdiness is just too much for me.

The complicated thing about the shy guy is that, aside from his nonexistent sense of humor and nerdy behavior and other things that I won't mention in this blog but that are also significant, he's a good guy. Sweet, thoughtful, kind. Also cute and intelligent. I argued with myself, maybe I could deal with the things I had problems with. After all, I myself am flawed. Very flawed. So who am I to judge?

But, as I envisioned gouging out my brain with an ice pick after hearing another one of the shy guy's horrible jokes, I realized that being mentally revolted by someone is probably not the mark of a long-lasting relationship. And I've said time and time again, to my friends, on this blog, that sense of humor is so important to me. I'd take an average-looking joe who cracks me up over a witless Brad Pitt-clone any day. Any. Day.

So back to square 1. Again.

My limit

We all have limits. Limits to what we can eat. Limits to what we can fathom.

Recently, I have come to realize that I myself have limits. Limits to how much nerdiness I can handle.

Let me just say first off that I will be the first to admit that I have nerdy tendencies. I am a Star Trek fan, specifically of the original and the Next Generation series. I loved and still love reading "The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams. And I used to memorize the squares of numbers up to 30 "just for fun" while working at my parents' pharmacy. So really, I readily acknowledge that I, along with perhaps everyone else, have some modicum of nerdiness.

That being said. I can't take it. The shy guy has surpassed my nerd-threshold.

Now. It's not that he pontificates on square roots and quasars, because even that would be interesting. It's not the subject of his conversations or his interests. It's the way he carries himself. And his jokes.

In case people can't tell, I have a slightly sarcastic sense of humor. And I enjoy a good witty banter once in a while. The shy guy's sense of humor, to the extent that it even exists, is completely devoid of wit. Bereft. Nonexistent.

Oh, I can work with that, I had reasoned with myself. Not everyone is going to be a repository of wit and charm, I had assured myself.

As each date progressed, however, I found myself not only not laughing in the wake of his horrid jokes. But cringing. Wincing. Grimacing.
______
Example 1:

Me: "I think that ship is made of steel and wood."

Him: "Huhuhuh. You said 'wood.' Get it? Huhuhuhuh."

Me: "Yeah I get it. That's pretty lame."

Him: "Huhuhuh."
______
Example 2:

Me: "I love banana creme pie."

Him: "Do you like oranges too?"

Me: "Uh...yeah..."

Him: "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

Me: "That doesn't even make sense. And I hate that knock knock joke."

Him: "Huhuhuhuh."
______
Example 3 (last one, I promise):

Me: "So my doctor guessed that I developed a slight allergy to that particular pollen..."

Him: "Maybe you're allergic to ME. Huhuhuh."

Me: "Was that even a joke? I don't get it."

Him: "Get it? Your allergic reaction was caused by me, not the pollen. Get it?"

Me: "Seriously, dude. How do you come up with these jokes?"

Him: "Huhuhuh. Ow, that hurt."

Me: "Dude. I couldn't come up with jokes this bad if I tried. I truly think it takes a certain amount of ingenuity to come up with jokes that make me want to vomit every meal I've had in the last 24 hours."

Him: "Ouch. That's harsh! Huhuhuh."
______
Hello, what I wanted was a comeback. Not a statement of the obvious.

The way he carries himself is also incredibly nerdy. The way he laughs artificially when I make a joke. I mean, I'm occasionally amusing, but when I say something innocuous like "That car has seen better days" - pointing to a car with a dented fender - he chortles like the laugh track to a bad "Friends" episode.

Another time, we were having dim sum. I took a piece of tofu from one of the plates in the center to put it on my plate. After a minute, I took a piece of Chinese spinach to put on my plate. And each time I used my chopsticks to lift the food from the dim sum plates to my plate, he'd stare at me, then the food, then me. I avoided looking at him because, like most people, I like to ignore people's social retardations for as long as I can. Yet each time I lifted a dumpling or roll to my plate, I could see in my peripheral vision his head robotically jerk from the food, to me, back to the food, back to me. Back. And forth.

What the fuck.

After several mintues of his strange behavior, I couldn't take it anymore and asked him, "Why do you keep staring at me and the food like that?"

"I don't know. I want to give you a hard time. Huhuhuh."

I looked at him. "That makes no sense."

"Huhuhuh."

Okay people. What you have just read is just a sample of what I experience in several minutes with this guy. Imagine whole hours. Whole days. It's unbearable. So while he is sweet, caring, thoughtful and profound, I ... just ... can't handle his nerdiness. I've reached my threshold. My tolerance level. My limit.

Just a tip.

Very few women will tire of hearing her significant other say to her, "You're beautiful."

Not "You're cute." Not "You're attractive." Not "You're pretty." But "You're beautiful."

Most effective when it's unexpected and, of course, sincere.

Ointment

A middle-aged, portly man stood in front of me, donning a striped t-shirt and cargo shorts. As we waited for the light to turn green, he reached with his left hand to scratch his back. Now, watching a middle-aged, portly man scratch his back is one thing. But he lifted his shirt to scratch his back. And I couldn't help but look and see what perhaps no one should see only five minutes after having lunch. There were rolls of blotchy flesh covered in an uneven layer of gray curly hair. I was additionally englightened on the source of his itch -- a bright pink boil the size of Rhode Island. It literally shined at me beneath the sunlight, as if cheerily alerting me to the fact that it may explode any second.

I reflexively looked away, but could still see the pink boil and the man's furry hand scratching it in my peripheral vision.

The light turned green, and I stood there for a second to give extra distance between me and the Boil Man.

Now seriously.

Without visions like these, I do not think humanity would be able to appreciate the beauty and wonders of the world.

Weird

Is it weird to be weirded out by the fact that you're not weirded out?

Okay people. Usually I am overly neurotic, analytical and more or less crazy when I start dating a guy, and subsequently blog/obsess over seemingly foreboding minutiae. But so far -- and I say this with tempered hope and wary optimism -- the shy guy hasn't triggered any of these tendencies. I actually feel...normal.

For now.

I can only hide the craziness for so long.

Ifs

I love hearing about how people meet. It fascinates me every time I hear a new story and reminds me of how fantastically random people's encounters with one another can be. A girl can sit at home after a shitty day at work and wonder whether or not she should go to her co-worker's birthday party. She hears the siren songs of her PJs and bucket of chocolate ice cream, and is just about to head to bed, when for some reason, she thinks to herself, "Why not?" And so she goes. And there, she meets a somewhat cute guy, a friend of a friend, whom, three years later, she marries. And perhaps that very guy, the week before, happened to take a later train than usual and happened to bump into an old college buddy who happened to invite him to this party.

So if he had taken a later train, or if she decided to stay in, they never would have met. Yet for some odd reason, an entire sequence of disconnected events through people and objects and time and chemicals in that person's brain amidst the circumstances led the guy and the gal to meet.

It fascinates me. And I think this fascination is the basis for about a million movies. People may attribute certain events to fate. Yet, while I appreciate how eerily well-timed events can lead to something wonderful, I won't relegate love to fate. It seems that the randomness of it all is even more supernatural and magical than fate.

I realized all of this as I perused the wedding section of the New York Times. I've scanned that page a few times to see if I'll recognize a name or two, and sometimes a particularly unique surname will compel me to click onto their story and how they met. An elevator. A get together. A work event. A friend of a friend. Totally random.

People (including me) look and look and look. And sometimes, people do meet and marry people they met after making their efforts, for example, match.com, a church social, and speed-dating (all of which I know for a fact have led to many marriages). Yet even in those settings, I believe the laws of randomness still apply.

It turns out that the shy guy (whom I'm still dating) and I were on the same exact online dating website. As some people may recall, I did a brief stint with online dating December 2005-January 2006. Yet his account was deactivated at the time I was on, and active before and after my stint. So apparently, we 'missed' each other. And for some reason, almost two years later, we happened to meet at a bar.

Random. Isn't it?

Not guilty

I was sitting in a pew in court. The courtroom was cavernous with high ceilings. And numerous lawyers sat with their brief cases, donning their charcoal, pinstripe or navy suits. As we all waited for the judge, it was silent, save for the sound of hushed voices and the clicking of keys on Crackberries.

Then my stomach emitted a growl.

Now normally, a stomach growl in a huge cavernous courtroom is only a bit embarrassing. "Wow someone is hungry" is the first thought a person will have upon hearing a stomach growl.

Except this single growl wasn't a normal typical growl. It was a humongo, low, deep, guttural growl.

In other words, it sounded like a fart.

The growl echoed throughout the room for probably about twenty seconds straight. People shifted uncomfortably in their seats and the man next to me avoided eye contact with me. It was pretty bad. I had actually felt the wooden pew vibrate as my stomach unforgivingly made its faux fart.

At that moment, I flipped open my phone, hoping I could pass it off as my cell phone ringing in vibrate mode. Maybe they'll buy it, I thought delusionally to myself.

Maybe not, as I heard a young male attorney snicker in the next row, peering at me over his shoulder.

And so I did what any other person in the wake of a recently emitted fart, growl and/or faux-fart-growl would do. Pretend that it didn't happen. Remain composed. And look around innocently as if to proclaim to the world: "It wasn't me."

A yellow gal walks into a bar

So the question arose, how I did meet the shy and slightly nerdy guy? No, it wasn't at the public library, a bookstore or Internet cafe. It was in perhaps the unlikeliest of places to pick up the shy and nerdy types: a bar.

But first off, he never came up to me. And I never went up to him.

I was in the ladies room, powdering my nose, when I happened to chit chat with a random girl. We totally hit it off. She was here for a birthday party, and as we exited the ladies' room, she brought me to the party area of the bar to introduce me to her friends. One of those friends was the shy guy.

When I first met him, I instantly thought he was cute, and was pleased to discover he could carry an intelligent conversation (rarity in a bar setting) and didn't give off that rico-suave-player vibe (another rarity in a bar setting). He was unassuming and easy-going. We exchanged numbers and actually ended up meeting up later to have one of those talk-til-the-sun-comes-up conversations about religion, science, God and the existence of Donald Trump's toupee.

It was in one of our later conversations that I learned that on that very night in that bar in which I met him, prior to the girl introducing me to her friends, a couple of his guy friends had spotted me across the bar and egged him on to talk to me (both of his guy friends were attached). He of course couldn't, due in part to his shy nature and also because I was chatting with another guy at the time (I was ordering a drink and happened to strike up a conversation with a random guy there).

One of his guy friend's girlfriends happened to be nearby while this occurred. And she happened to visit the ladies' room at the same time I did not too soon thereafter. And she happened to chit chat with me and we happened to hit it off.

Upon learning this latter sequence of events, I looked at my shy guy. "Wait a minute," I said, "so this was all a ruse? A ploy?!"

"No," he laughed. "I don't know what her motivations were for talking to you. I'm not even 100% sure she overheard her boyfriend egging me on. Either way, it worked out."

I laughed. How ingenious. IF it was all a ploy, it was pretty clever of the girl. I myself have approached girls in bars and did the junior-high-school "Hey, my friend thinks you're cute"-thing, to little success. To make the effort to talk with me and befriend me -- that takes it to a whole new level.

Yet neither of us are sure if she did chat with me intentionally. My shy guy indicated that he would never have been able to approach me in the bar anyway, even though he thought I was cute.

"What?" I asked. "Even if you think a girl is cute, you won't approach her?"

"No," he replied. "I'm way too shy."

"So what can a girl do to be more approachable?" I asked.

"There just needs to be something there. If a girl and I were in a same class or ran in the same running group, that'd be something. But in a random bar, there's no connection. No commonality. So I can't just walk up to a girl and chat with her."

"Interesting," I said.

Either way, it worked out. So far. For now. Remember, my goal is to contain my hopes. Poceed with caution. And take things one day at a time.

Ibuprofen

Right now, my neck is sore. Specifically, the left side. I think people have a preferred side to tilt their heads when they kiss someone for a really really long time, and it appears that I tend to tilt my head to the right, thereby over-utilizing my left neck muscles. Of course, sitting sideways on a park bench doesn't help that much either. So it was a good thing the cop slowed down to a halt next to us last night when it did to tell us that the park was closed. Otherwise, my neck would be really sore.

Oh by the way, I met a boy.

I know my m.o. is to regale the virtual blog world on how I met the boy, how it all started, every subsequent date and so on. But I won't. Because there are way too many details.

Suffice it to say that he's pretty cute, articulate, profound yet silly, and...shy and slightly nerdy.

Okay, there's something about the shy-and-slightly-nerdy guys that makes me pursue them a little more than I would a "normal" guy. So I admit. I broke all the Rules. (I called him instead of waiting for him to call me.) And so did he. (He called me less than 24 hours of first meeting me instead of waiting 3 days to call me. Then he called me the next day.)

Upon listening to the trepidation and excitement in my voice when I described the shy guy, my friend smiled and said, "Hmm, I want to meet this guy who makes you so nervous."

"He's kind of nerdy," I warned her as I remembered his occasional corny jokes and awkward demeanor.

"That's your type," she said.

"What?"

"Look at Love-of-your-life #1. Look at Love-of-your-life #2. Both nerdy," she explained. "It makes sense."

"Oh," I said.

And after she met him, she nodded to me, "Yep, he's nerdy. Not as nerdy as #1. But on par with #2. Still, he's pretty cute. And he seems like a good guy."

Both Love-of-my-life #s 1 and 2 were somewhat quiet and nerdy. And with both of them, I suppose I broke the Rules. Because something about the quiet nerdiness makes me more proactive, bold and confident. Also, they probably wouldn't have done anything unless I threw something out there like a phone call or an open invitation.

So last night, I was with the shy guy. He was leaving for business this morning and would be gone for three weeks. As a result, we talked on the phone virtually every night and saw each other five times in the one week we knew each other, just after first meeting each other. (Rules? What Rules?)

And all that time, he hadn't kissed me. And I really really really wanted him to. Even with #s 1 and 2, I made the guy make the first move. (Though with #1 I resorted to saying, "So are you going to kiss me or what?" after dating for three weeks. In #1's defense, he had never kissed a girl before.)

Anyhow, I was with the shy guy last night, sitting on the park bench, leaning my head on his shoulder and gazing at the trees and grass and moths flickering by the park lamps. At one point, the moment was so there, I was literally hollering in my mind, "Hello - I'm waiting! Just frigging bust a move and kiss me!"

And finally, what felt like eons later, he did. Finally.

And it was nice.

And so today my neck is sore. I wonder if his is too.

The Mom

I called my mom the other day to chit chat. At one point, she lowered her voice and said to me in a hushed tone, "I worry about you."

Worry about me? Worry about what?

Was she worried that I lived alone in a big big city in an apartment by myself? That I might slip on the bathtub and knock myself unconscious and drown in my own bath? That one day coming home from work at 11 pm I might get raped and murdered and no one would find my limp body in the dumpster until three days later?

No.

She was worried I would become a Spinster.

"You're almost thirty now," she said mournfully, as if delivering a eulogy, "I worry that you become Spinster. I pray for you every day that you find a good man. Soon."

I laughed despite myself. "Um, thanks Mom."

She wouldn't be Mom unless she was Mom.

A person

As one progresses from childhood to adulthood, a person will come to many startling realizations. There is no Santa. Babies come from sex, not heaven. Mommy and Daddy are sometimes wrong. Life isn't fair. Fortune cookies don't always have fortunes in them. Et cetera, et cetera.

One of the eeriest realizations for me is the fact that my mom isn't just Mom, but an actual...person. A woman.

WEIRD, isn't it?

I was reminded of this while reading "Behind the Scenes at the Museum," by Kate Atkinson (who by the way is a frigging kick-ass writer, the kind of writer I wish I could be). The main character at one point looks at her mom at a moment when the mom is particularly vulnerable, and is just struck by that raw vulnerability and the life her mother lived (or rather, didn't live).

Most of the time I see my mom as Mom. Cooker of food. Nagger. Affixer of band-aids. Disciplinarian. Comforter. But every once in a while, something I witness or read will remind me that she's a real person with this whole life story that preceded my existence.

It's frigging WEIRD.

Poem of a Bad Mathematician(or Something You Write After Being Coked up on Several Shots of Espresso)

You could even my oddness.

I could odd your evenness.

And if we're both odd, then together we add up to an even.

Though if you are the One, that would make you odd.
And infinite.
And then One plus One would not equal two but one.

Then we'd both be odd and uneven.
Together.
And infinite.

The gravel path

I grew up in a Christian household, where Bible study was as important a subject as geography or literature. My experience with the opposite sex, from age 0 to 18, was very very limited. Virtually nonexistent in fact. I was the quiet, modestly smart girl whom the boys just couldn't see "in that way." And while my love life remained steady at 0%, my notions of like, like-like, and love bloomed inversely. The Christian additive of spiritual and perfect love perhaps catalyzed my idealism.

Up until age 15, I had never kissed a boy. My forays into romance in high school were limited to one-sided crushes and the one boy I dated for a week. And yes, the one boy was the only boy I had kissed in high school and we only kissed once.

Not that I went to a pristine high school. Kids were having sex at age 12. I knew a girl who had an abortion at age 14. And I had heard of parties where people got drunk and got high and "hooked up." To me, all of this was as foreign as showing up to church without a Bible. And so, in the absence of a love life, any experience I had with any guy was magnified ten fold.

One such experience began with a gravel path.

It was winter and I was fifteen years old. I was walking to church on the gravel path, a remote side street that served as the boundary line between a lightly wooded area and a yellowed grass field. That morning my brother had gone to a different church with his friend and my mother had gone to an earlier service. I had no ride so I had to walk the mile and a half to church. It was a little cold, but tolerable, probably 40 degrees.

As I walked along the road, I could hear a car drive slowly from behind. I walked to the edge of the road to let the car pass. But instead of passing by, the small white sedan slowed down. The driver was a young man, Yellow, with smooth tawny skin that stretched over his high cheekbones. Next to him was another young man, also Yellow. The driver rolled down his window and smiled. "Hi there."

"Hi," I said, still walking, holding my Bible and notepad to my chest. His smile was so warm, I couldn't help but smile back.

He kept driving along next to me. "Isn't it too chilly to be walking by yourself?" he asked me.

"Nah," I said, still walking, "it's fine."

"Where you off to?" he asked.

"Church."

"Really? Me too. Which one?"

"First Presbyterian Church, right down this road."

"Really? That's where we're going to too."

I stopped walking. "Really? Which service do you go to?"

"The college group with Pastor Ham."

"Oh yeah," I said. "I'm in the youth group. I guess our services start around the same time."

"Do you need a ride?" he asked me.

I looked at the empty back seat and then turned to the gravel path that stretched ahead of me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was perhaps a little too chilly to be walking by myself. Still, I felt obligated to say, "Are you sure that's okay?"

"Of course," he said. And so he unlocked the back of his car and I opened it and hopped in. As I sat in the back seat, adjusting my Bible and notepad, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror so that I could only see his narrow eyes. "By the way, I'm Johnny."

"Hi Johnny," I said, "I'm Yellow Gal."

"And this is Tom."

Tom turned around to say to me, "Hi."

"Hi Tom," I said. He turned back around to face the road.

I don't remember exactly what we chatted about for the next few minutes. Was it about church? The youth group? The upcoming church retreat? I'm not sure. I do remember sitting there in the back, feeling the car quake on the bumpy gravel path and looking at Johnny through the rearview mirror, or just his eyes rather, as he glanced from the road to me throughout the ride. And suddenly I didn't feel that cold anymore; I felt very warm in fact, just sitting there and talking to him. He was so easy-going, so friendly. Tom, for the most part, spoke only once or twice to interject a "yeah" or "uh huh."

When we got to church, he drove up to the youth group entrance to drop me off. "Thank you," I smiled to him as I shut his door.

"No problem," he said to me with a nod. I stood there, wanting him to say something more. But instead he drove away to the lot to park his car.

I went to service as usual, my heart beating beneath the Bible I held to my chest, still shivering from the bumpy ride. He definitely seemed older. The way he spoke was just different from the way the boys in my algebra class spoke. Something more grown up, but still boyish.

I hoped against all hope that I would bump into him in church that day, in the hallway or out on the lawn. But I didn't. For the next several weeks, I looked for him on Sundays, hoping I'd see him again before or after his service. But I didn't. My fifteen year old mind envisioned various circumstances under which I would bump into Johnny. At the supermarket perhaps. Or maybe at the mall. Maybe we'd bump into each other at the same Christian shop. But we didn't.

And so, of course, as time passed my crush faded and in its wake, other short-lived crushes cropped up and similarly faded. It would be a year before I'd see Johnny again.

I was sixteen now and had made the JV cheerleading squad for what would be a brief stint in high school. It was winter and therefore basketball season. The JV basketball team just finished winning their game, and the gym court cleared for the varsity cheerleaders and varsity basketball players to warm up before their game. I was chatting with some squad members, commenting on a particularly pathetic toe touch the other team's cheerleader did, when I happened to spot a random girl in crutches hobble around the court. She stopped in front of one of the bleachers and started playfully kicking someone with her still good leg.

That someone looked very very familiar.

I broke away from the group and started walking towards the girl and her victim. As I got closer and closer, I recognized the tawny skin, the smooth cheekbones. It was Johnny. He seemed to be sitting with a group of upperclassmen.

"Stop kicking me!" Johnny was saying to the the girl, laughing.

"Ha-ha!" she said as she swatted him one last time with one of her crutches before hobbling away, giggling.

I stood there, pom poms in hand, staring at Johnny, until he looked at me. "Hi," I breathed.

"Um, hi," he said. Clearly he didn't recognize me.

"Um," I said, "didn't you give me a ride before?"

One of the older high school girls behind him started snickering. "That sounded bad," she smirked. So much for an opener.

"Huh?" he said. "A ride?"

"Um," I said. "Last year. I was walking to church and you gave me a ride. It was to First Presbyterian Church...?"

He kind of looked at me for a second and narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah," he said nodding slowly. "I kinda remember you. You were in the youth group?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's Yellow Gal. In case you forgot."

"Oh yeah, I remember," he said, smiling. I beamed at him, wringing my pom poms in my hand.

"You're Johnny, right?"

"Right," he smiled. And we chatted some more. I sat down next to him on the bleachers and we talked about where he was now (still in college) and whether he went back to that church (no). I soon learned that he had attended my high school a few years before. Apparently he knew some of the older siblings of some of the upperclassmen. We watched the varsity game and he, in a very unsportsmanlike manner, yelped a falsetto "shazoo!" every time the other team had a foul shot. It usually worked. And as crude as his behavior was, I of course found it endearing.

The game ended with another win. As people started trickling out of the gym in good spirits, I stood up. "Well," I said, "I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up now."

"Oh, do you want a ride?" he asked.

"Ummm," I said. I did some quick mental math, wondering what were the chances of my parents freaking out over a college guy giving me a ride home after 8 pm. Then I figured I could just lie and say so-and-so's mom drove me home, it was on the way. "Sure!" I chirped.

(I could always ask God for forgiveness for lying and dishonoring my parents later.)

"Cool," he said.

And so I ran to the locker room to grab my bookbag and jacket, and met him by the gym's side exit. He held the door open for me as I exited the gym. It was very dark outside.

"Isn't it so funny how we bumped into each other again?" I said, walking next to him.

"Yeah," he said as he pulled out his keys, "what a coincidence."

By the time we got to his car, there was only the distant sound of people hooting and cars driving away. His white sedan glowed faintly beneath the dim street lights. He unlocked my door and opened it for me (Such a gentleman! I had thought to myself). Then he closed the door for me once I was seated. I watched him get in the car, seat himself comfortably, place the key in the ignition and turn the engine on. He fiddled with the radio a bit before settling on a station. Ace of Base was singing "The Sign," and Johnny and I just sat there, waiting for the car to warm up. Then he turned to me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," he said.

"Oh," I said, "okay." I was suddenly worried that he'd think I was just a kid, too young and immature to like-like, much less like. He's probably used to older mature college girls, I thought to myself. I really really wanted him to like me.

"My dad's ten years older than my mom," I added. And as soon as I said that, I felt really stupid.

He kind of laughed and brushed my cheek with his hand before putting the car in reverse. "You're really cute," he said as he began backing out.

I felt my heart race. "Cute" as in funny? Or "cute" like a baby? Or "cute" like a woman? People always think I look 12 years old, I thought miserably to myself. He pulled out of the parking lot and I gave him directions to my house. As I sat next to him, I looked at his face and watched it flicker beneath the passing street lights, and his hands as they steadily steered the steering wheel. He looked different at night.

Soon we were pulling into my driveway at my house. He slowed the car in front of my garage and put the car in park.

"Well," I said nervously, "it was good chatting with you. Thanks for the ride!"

"No problem," he said slowly. I was adjusting my bookbag to leave when he asked me, "So can I have your number?"

I felt my heart skip a beat. "Sure," I said. JOHNNY IS ASKING ME FOR MY NUMBER! I was screaming inside my mind. I stealthily unzipped my bag, shuffled for a notebook and pen, ripped out a corner of a page, and scribbled my name and number on it.

Then I handed it to him shyly. "Sorry it's so sloppy," I offered.

"No worries. Thanks," he said, "I'll call you."

"Cool," I said, beaming. Then I hopped out of his car, closed the door, and walked to my front door, listening to the sound of his white sedan back out of the driveway.

* * *
Okay this blog entry is getting long. I'll finish the rest of this anecdote some other time. A couple things struck me though as I relived this memory: (1) It's kind of scary for a fifteen year old girl to get into a car with two male strangers on a remote road in the middle of winter. It sounds like the beginning of a really scary movie, doesn't it? and (2) It's kind of grody for a 21 year old college dude to fraternize with a 16 year old. But at the time neither of those instances struck me as odd. Parents, watch your kids!

Anyhow, I'll finish some other time.