Tuesday, August 28, 2007

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.

Monday, August 20, 2007


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.


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


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.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

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."

Thursday, August 16, 2007

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.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

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.

Monday, August 13, 2007

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.

Friday, August 10, 2007

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,


>>>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,


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

Thursday, August 09, 2007

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.

Friday, August 03, 2007

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."


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.
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