Yellow Gal

The Year of the Dragon draws near

2012-01-14T06:32:00.006-06:00

I realize it's been several months since my last post. The reason being, only a few weeks after my previous post, I learned (or suspected) I was pregnant.

Yes, pregnant!

I wasn't 100.00% sure because pregnancy tests can have false positive results. But when I saw the doctor in December, it was confirmed. I am indeed with child.

It wasn't completely unexpected. The hubby and I were trying, but didn't expect to succeed during the first month of trying. Needless to say, it was a lifestyle change to forgo all booze, caffeine, and sushi even before we began trying.

So! I'm due in July, in the year of the Dragon. It should be an auspicious year. I have a feeling the baby will be a girl. The eldest child -- possibly a dragon girl -- will indeed be a feisty, fiery force to be reckoned with. Hopefully she will have only half the sass her mom has.

And so a Yellow Gal may beget another Yellow Gal.

Sick day

2011-10-21T08:13:00.005-05:00

One of the wonderful consequences of cohabiting with the one you love is that you double the probability of getting sick.

When my hubs got sick several days ago, I felt perfectly fine, despite his coughing, sniffling and wheezing all day. But after a few days of nonstop exposure, I too started coughing, sniffling and wheezing. Bleh.

I imagine that once a couple has children, the probability of catching a cold triples or quadruples (depending on the number of kids).

If there is ever a test for my immune system, the future is it.

Being happy

2011-10-01T14:53:00.002-05:00

Ever since I was a child, I have wondered what makes people happy.

One of my friends apparently has everything. She is intelligent and attractive, has a high-paying job with minimal hours, does intellectually stimulating work, and has a boyfriend who adores her.

Yet she always finds something to be unhappy about. And she complains.

A lot.

She complains about the boss who likes her so much, he annoys her. (Never mind she always has glowing performance reviews.) She complains about her mortgage payments and interest rate. (Never mind that her salary enables her to pay her mortgage payments tenfold per month.) She complains about her weight. (Never mind that she's skinny as a stick.)

Her negativity extends beyond herself to her immediate surroundings and acquaintances. Suppose I planned a soiree and 99.9% of it went swimmingly. Afterwards, she will bluntly point out the 0.1% that went awry and discuss how it went awry.

This behavior irks me because:

(1) Negativity is contagious. If I am surrounded by negativity, I begin to breed negativity.

(2) She has so much more going for her. To complain about her weight in front of ladies heavier than she is, or complain about finances in front of ladies who make less than she does or who don't even have a job is uncouth, to say the least.

And then it occurred to me: She might be incapable of being happy. Something fundamental in her chemical wiring renders it impossible to be happy. No life circumstance -- no matter how wonderful or serendipitous -- could ever make her happy.

Then I think about my other girlfriend. She grew up without a father, and so her mother struggled financially throughout her childhood. She was sexually abused by an uncle when she was in high school. And not too long ago, her mother passed away from a long battle with ovarian cancer. She does not make that much money and works long hours, yet somehow, she is a happier person. Yes, she suffered when awful events occurred, but she never lost her natural tendency to be positive and forward thinking.

This friend is somehow hard-wired to be a happier person, regardless of life circumstance.

I remember a study that I once heard that struck me. (Bear in mind, it could be from a movie or novel and, therefore, entirely fictional.) It was a study of two groups of people over a six-month period. One group tended to be positive and happy. The other group tended to be negative and unhappy. The study then focused on positive life experiences, such as winning the lottery or getting married, and negative life experiences, such as becoming quadriplegic, or losing a spouse or friend.

It turned out that when the positive/happy group suffered negative life events, they were temporarily depressed, but eventually reverted back to their positive/happy state. And when the negative/unhappy group enjoyed positive life events, they were temporarily uplifted before reverting back to their negative/unhappy state.

Are some people born with a physiology that enables them to be happier than others?

Is happiness simply a matter of neurological fate?

As for me, I think I've become happier as I've gotten older. Maybe because I found a life partner. Maybe because I learned not to sweat the small stuff as much. Maybe because I have a little more perspective on life. It takes time to realize that the things that do inevitably go wrong in life end up working out, albeit not perfectly. And after experiencing the passing of a friend or relative, you learn to focus on the important things in life instead of trivial matters.

I have distanced myself from the above-mentioned negative friend, and grown closer to the happy friend. And I think that helped too. Surrounding oneself with positive people rather than negative folks uplifts the mood.

These are the things I tell myself when I get annoyed by an obnoxious driver during rush hour or a snide remark at work. They are what they are -- inconsequential life circumstances that have no bearing on my happiness.

Forget me not

2011-09-02T14:22:00.006-05:00

What would life be like if we had no memory? What if we had no memory of people or events? Instead, our entire existence would be the sum of our immediate sensory perception. I wonder if we would we be happier or sadder. Every scar and bruise would be a mystery, and every person would be a stranger. (Heaven for an extrovert, hell for an introvert.)

We would have no memories of pain. But we would also have no memories of joy.

It's strange. The more distant a memory is in my mind, the softer it becomes. Kind of like a photograph that was once crisp and clear, and later fades, curls and blurs with time. It almost seems like part of a dream, or part of a novel you once read years ago.

Other memories are visited more often, with the most salient and pleasurable elements specially preserved, if not magnified. That BBQ at the park with the old college friends. The grill smelled smokier, the boxed wine tasted sweeter, and the cool grass prickled your toes just a bit more in your memory than it might have in reality.

It's your memory, though. You can do what you want with it.

Right?

I think about the people who are no longer in my life. They loiter in the back of my mind and reappear at particular moments in time, like when I'm waiting in line or when I see an oddity that reminds me of them. They reenact scenes or conversations I had with them and then, when their performance ends, they bow and exit stage left.

Then I wonder. Am I a memory in someone else's mind? The raven-haired girl who wanders into someone's dream, recites a bitter or sweet line, and leaves the room? Does my appearance onstage conjure joy, sadness, rage, or pity? Or am I not even in the cast?

I wonder if it is better to be remembered or forgotten. When I reflect upon my life, I think I'd rather be forgotten by those in the past, and remembered by those in the present.

Things learned the hard way #582,376

2011-09-02T14:06:00.005-05:00

Never rely on anyone to be accountable.

(This statement is the kinder cousin to the corollary, "Trust no one.")

Earlier this week, I had spoken with my manager about an Issue. "I'm on top of it," he assured me. "Don't worry about it, I'll let the Senior Boss know I'm on it."

This morning, however, I received a terse email:

Yellow Gal,

It has come to my attention that [the Issue] was not resolved. I took care of it. In the future, please ensure that [the Issue] is resolved and update me on its status.

Thanks.
Senior Boss

Immediately after receiving the email, I called Senior Boss.

It rang twice before he picked up. "Hello, this is [Senior Boss]."

"Hi Senior Boss, this is Yellow Gal, how are you?"

"Fine."

I waited for him to ask how I was doing. After three seconds, I realized that wasn't going to happen, so I said, "I received your email. Manager told me he took care of the Issue, and would talk to you. I assumed he resolved it."

"Well he didn't," Senior Boss said. I could hear the irritation grating in his voice. "I understand what you're saying. But in the future, talk to me directly instead of just speaking with Manager."

"Understood" was what I should have said. "Okay!" was what I chirped.

There were a few seconds of subsiding silence. Then he proceeded to talk about other work matters.

So yeah. Even if it's your manager or someone you typically rely on, follow up. A tiny thought flitted through my mind that maybe I should have looped back to Senior Boss - but I didn't.

Listen to the tiny thought.

Resolution (sort of)

2011-08-29T18:09:00.005-05:00

I received the following message from "The Blogger Team" after reporting all 151 of my plagiarized blog entries:

Hello,

Thanks for reaching out to us.

We have received your DMCA complaint. Upon recent review of the blog(s) mentioned in your complaint, it appears that the post(s) in question no longer exist(s). If this matter is still a concern, please reply to this email with detailed information to enable us to locate the allegedly infringing content.

Regards,

The Google Team

So that's that.

I guess she deleted the blog herself rather than waiting for Blogger to investigate and shut it down.

Violation

2011-08-28T08:50:00.003-05:00

Plagiarizing someone's blog is not only a legal and moral violation. It's a personal violation.

I have blogged about so many things - my childhood, my father who passed away, conversations with my mother, men I have dated before I met my husband, racism I have experienced, feelings of self-doubt, neurosis, and insecurity. These moments are intimate to my life. They are mine.

To see someone take those memories and feelings, and replace a word or two with some other inane noun or verb is such an insult to the original memory or feeling. It is a violation of the most intimate kind.

It's still on.

2011-08-27T16:25:00.004-05:00

I looked through Thinking's blog, and learned she plagiarized multiple other bloggers.

I contacted and emailed each and every one of them, and posted the precise link to Thinking's blog that copies their blog entries. Hopefully, Blogger will take down the blog.

I attempted to comment on Thinking's blog, but she moderates her comments, so obviously she will disapprove any comment pointing out her plagiarism. She also conveniently deleted my previous posts on her blog about her plagiarized blog entries.

It looks like Crystal Jigsaw and I were the most heavily plagiarized. We'll see what happens next.

151 Plagiarized Entries (at least)

2011-08-27T16:04:00.008-05:00

It's on like Donkey Kong.

2011-08-27T11:53:00.003-05:00

Well I tried.

It turns out that Thinking has not only plagiarized my blog, but other bloggers as well. And continues to do it to this day, despite her apology on my blog.

If you visit her page right now, the first post dated August 25, 2011 titled, "If I were a beloved Husband!," is plagiarized from fridz's blog entry, "if i were a boy."

Her next post dated August 22, 2011 titled, "Who is THINKING ?" (not Thinking, obviously), is plagiarized from Crystal Jigsaw's blog entry, "Who Is Crystal Jigsaw?"

And many, many other entries have been copied, pasted, and tinkered with just enough to render them non-identical. I plan to contact these other bloggers, contact Blogger, and call Thinking out on her blog.

Is this personal?

Yeah, this is personal.

The permanence of love

2011-08-05T17:12:00.005-05:00

Last night, a friend passed away.

She was one of those girls who was always in a good mood. Funny, slightly goofy, and unafraid to stand in front of a crowd during karaoke and belt her heart out. She was an aspiring violinist, and played in a few chamber orchestras in the city. Her dream was to play for the New York Philharmonic. She was my age.

The moment I found out she was pregnant, I congratulated her and her husband on their expectancy. She was super excited and stoked to be an expecting mother. They found out they were having a son and I was so happy for her.

Yesterday, she checked into the hospital. Later that evening, they induced labor and she gave birth to a beautiful, healthy girl. The doctors noticed something was very very wrong, and called her family immediately. When the family arrived, the doctors delivered the bad news: she had suffered from internal bleeding, and passed away.

It is devastating on so many levels. Her husband is a widower at just age 35. He lost his life partner, his best friend, his wife. They seemed so happy together, and all of a sudden she's just gone. The infant daughter will no doubt be showered with love for the rest of her life. But she will never know her mother. And her birth will forever be linked with her mother's death.

I think of my friend. She was so vibrant. I remember her counting the days to her giving birth, her exclaiming that in just X number of days, she was going to be a mommy. Her baby shower was just a couple weeks ago.

It just seems impossible that someone who can be so full of life one day be simply gone the next. Where does that life force go? That energy, that expectant joy and excitement? Does it simply vanish? It just seems so shocking and stark, it makes no sense.

Her daughter will never know her mother. But I know that the daughter will learn about her mother when she grows older, through videos, photographs, and stories. The daughter will listen to recordings of her mother playing the violin. She will watch her parents' wedding video, and see photographs of her mother dressed as Batgirl at her last Halloween party.

I have faith that the rest of the family will inherit the love my friend would have had for her daughter, and will shower the daughter with that love. That love will never vanish. It will live on in those who share it.

Run.

2011-08-04T18:12:00.003-05:00

I really want to run tonight. Run the anxiety out of my toes. Run the thoughts out of my head. Running is one of the few times where you are in complete control of the situation: how long you run, how fast you run, what you wear.

If you want to stop, you can stop. If you want to go farther than yesterday, you can. No judgment.

It's kind of nice.

Redemption

2011-08-04T18:02:00.003-05:00

I believe in redemption. I believe people can make a mistake and later have the choice to do the right thing.

So far, my admirer/plagiarizer has not issued any public apology or detraction on her blog. It makes me sad. And it puts me in a very uncomfortable, unfortunate situation. I really do not want to go onto each entry and post my original entry to discredit her.

I really want to give her the choice. Everyone deserves a chance.

Plagiarized blogs abound

2011-07-31T18:50:00.005-05:00

I googled "plagiarized blog" and numerous websites popped up on other bloggers who have been plagiarized. Looks like I'm not alone:

A published author named Mary W. Walters discovered her blog was being plagiarized extensively just a couple weeks ago, and is looking into what she can do.

Another blogger, Truthful Mommy, has had her blog plagiarized multiple times. She provides several solutions, like installing software that prevents people from copy-and-pasting her blog text.

There are also articles on preventing blog content theft:

and so many more!

Thanks to techiedevil, a blogger on Internet Marketing Journal, I learned how to prevent content theft by employing a script that prevents copy-and-pasting as suggested by Truthful Mommy above.

We'll wait and see what happens next!

Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery

2011-07-31T10:40:00.007-05:00

I just discovered someone has been plagiarizing my blog! I am both flattered and disturbed right now. Well, if you're reading this, "Thinking," I have just outed you.

The blogger, "Thinking," has a blog entry, "I am White Swan !" dated September 23, 2010, that is almost word-for-word identical to my blog entry, "I am a white swan," dated December 3, 2005. "Thinking" added a sentence or two, but they're pretty much the same. Click on the two hyperlinks, and judge for yourselves.

Just found another one, "Not that INTO me ?" dated August 12, 2010, which is eerily similar to one of my older entries, "He's just not that into me?" dated December 25, 2005.

I don't have the time or energy to see what other entries "Thinking" copied and slightly modified for "originality's sake." Suffice it to say, I don't mind if people quote, copy, whatever from my blog. Just give me some credit!

Of course, I read all the comments to "Thinking's blog entries" and read them as if they're responding to me. Also, I will post a comment on her blog. Who knows how many other bloggers have been plagiarized?

To quote Thinking, "I am honored" to have been plagiarized. (See? This sentence is an example of attributing credit.)

Our avatars

2011-07-31T09:12:00.007-05:00

Social networking is an interesting phenomenon. I am thinking of Facebook, in particular. It is a projection of what the user wants the world to see. Witty status updates, selected photographs showing only your good side, and only the interests, books, and movies you're not embarrassed of. Your profile is a well-crafted depiction of the person you wish others to see.

Not unlike online dating, in a way.

Or blogging. Admittedly, I shape my blog according to the messages, anecdotes, and fictions I want to convey. Yes, I sometimes include the unhappy, embarrassing, humbling moments, but even those moments are crafted.

Does anyone ever want anyone else to know the "real" us? Not just the embarrassing stories your college friends know, but the shit, despair, and humiliation. It was bad enough to go through it once; why relive that shit again by revealing it to people? Each new acquaintance is a blank slate from which you can construct your new persona. You were never a neglected child, an abused teen, or battered wife. You are simply a new person to this new acquaintance.

Revealing one's "real" self is a rare event, perhaps only to a select few -- a best friend, a significant other, at most. And that revelation of your true self is only when you truly believes you won't be judged for your flaws, mistakes, or traumas. It is also the only way to achieve genuine intimacy.

The rest of the world -- including our parents, friends, and coworkers -- is kept at arm's length; they see only a filtered version of our true selves. None of them know the "real" us. They only know our projections.

My list of places to visit (in no order)

2011-07-22T15:35:00.004-05:00

Spain
Australia
Egypt
Portugal
New Zealand
Thailand
India
Turkey
Czech Republic
Japan
Costa Rica
Philippines
Ireland
Amsterdam
China

And revisit:

France
England
Greece
Italy
Brazil

I just need to win the lottery, that's all.

An update

2011-07-22T13:16:00.007-05:00

So I should probably mention that I'm married now. Yep, married. Yay! (And don't ask me how many times someone said to me, "Hell has frozen over," at my wedding no less.)

Like advancing from "virgin" to "non-virgin" status, transitioning from "single" to "married" status isn't as mind-blowingly, awe-inspiringly explosive of a change as I thought it might be.

It's an easy transition. It's a nice transition. And it feels good to know I'll be with the same dude 'til I kick it.

When one gets married in her thirties versus twenties, there's a greater expectation to bear children sooner (as my mom has made abundantly, excessively, painstakingly clear to me on an hourly basis). One of the advantages of marrying earlier is being able to enjoy being married - traveling the globe with your spouse, going to the theater followed by late night frivolity - without the immediate fear of one's eggs drying up.

If my man and I want to have kids, we will not have the luxury of time to "enjoy being married."

That said, I'm glad my single life went the way it did. Sure, I still wish I had the chance to go speed-dating or attend a "bring your ex" party. And a few more pretty boys to play with and break my heart would have been entertaining fodder for this blog. But I feel like I got a lot of dysfunctional dating accomplished in the time allotted.

Disappointments, social retards, mind games, awkward moments, and rejection really make you appreciate the person you end up with.

Am I saying that someone has to treat you badly to enable you to appreciate being treated well? Not necessarily. But after finding so many dudes who don't fit, finding someone who does fit is pretty amazing.

One acquaintance put it, "It's a goddamn miracle." Not sure if that's a compliment or insult (I'm pretty sure it's the latter), but truth be told, I agree: it is a goddamn miracle to find a guy who fits you...and you fit him.

I still suck.

2011-07-22T13:06:00.002-05:00

Following my 20/20 hindsight post below, I was confronted with another race-based comment by a coworker.

Three of us were standing in someone's office, when the following occurred:

Coworker #1: "Wow, I've been on the phone with all these foreigners today."

I think to myself, Foreigners? Did he just say 'foreigners'?

Given my vast knowledge of racial self-awareness, wit, and quick-paced thinking, I responded with a very assertive: "Huh."

Yet, without skipping a beat, Coworker #2 said: "Coworker #1, we're all foreigners. Wait, unless you're a Native American? No, I didn't think so."

Coworker #2: "[Stammering justification, explanation, etc.]"

Seriously, I suck.

20/20 hindsight

2011-05-26T20:01:00.006-05:00

My (white) friend was at a football game with some (white) friends at a large university. While sitting in the bleachers, they struck up a conversation with a couple (white) neighbors, a current university student with his father. At one point in the conversation, the student said, "I like it here a lot. The only thing is that there are too many Asian girls. All the Asian girls are detracting from the pretty girls here."

My friend and her friends just sat there and pretty much failed to respond. When she later told me this story, I was annoyed for two reasons:

(1) The comment was a direct insult to my peeps.
(2) She didn't stick up for me. None of them stood up for yellow womankind. They just took it.

I realize people are entitled to their opinions. Just like there are dudes who think all Asian chicks are hot, there are dudes who think Asian chicks are ugly. But still. A part of me gets mad thinking about how my friend didn't do anything to stand up against the racist comment.

But then another part of me reflects on my own behavior and gets mad for all the times I didn't stand up for something when I should have.

The other day, I was in the ladies room, chatting with a coworker. I asked her if she hung out in the city a lot (she lives in the burbs). She said, "Oh, no, there are too many people there -- it's so scary!"

"Oh really?" I asked, wondering how "too many people" could be scary.

"I was walking in the East Village the other day," she said, "and I was surrounded by all these black people. I thought I was going to get robbed!" She started laughing.

I was stunned and involuntarily smiled back. "What? Why would you think you were going to get robbed?"

"All those black people!"

Instead of standing up for what was right, I stammered, "Oh the East Village is safe..."

Later on, I was kicking myself for not saying something else. Of course, the responses flow to me now:

"Why do you think black people would rob you? That's racist."
"I have friends who are black and, um, none of them have robbed me."
"My fiance is black and he's never robbed anyone."
"I'm black."

(Okay the last two were hypothetical.)

I guess it's hard to think on one's feet when one is confronted with a statement so shocking and unexpected. Now that I think about it, there have been a number of times when I've been confronted with blatant racism and I had no idea how to respond. I can deal with low-level racist comments, like, "Asians are good at math" or "What are you?" But blatant comments like "I hate Mexicans" or "Asians are shitty drivers" - not so much.

I realize that all that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. I just gotta conjure my anti-racist comebacks faster!

Peacefulness.

2011-04-10T10:17:00.001-05:00

Classical music playing on the radio, against the backdrop of ambient city noise streaming in from an open window.

wo ai ni

2011-04-08T18:59:00.003-05:00

I'm not Chinese but I know what it means.

Little gal

2011-04-05T15:36:00.006-05:00

I am a complete woman. I know who I am and know what I want.

Yet every once in a while, I get bouts of neurotic insecurity, the kind that should only plague girls ages 10-17, not women who are educated and experienced in the real world. It is during these bouts of insecurity that I question my intelligence and my appearance--specifically, my weight.

Today I went to see my doctor for a regular check-up. She took my blood pressure and said, "It sounds healthy. Blood pressure can be on the low side for skinny people."

Hold up. Was she saying I was skinny? Skinny?? No, perhaps she was saying my blood pressure was healthy, but added an irrelevant bit of trivia on skinny people.

"So it's healthy?" I said.

"Yes," she said as she put the stethoscope away.

"But it was on the low side?"

"Yes, it's lower than the average person; but that's usually the case with skinny women."

"Oh okay," I said calmly, placing my hands on my lap. Inside, my heart fluttered at the thought that my doctor said I was "skinny," a word I reserved for the likes of Calista Flockhart and Keira Knightley. (Granted, I know I weigh more than 80 pounds, unlike Ms. Flockhart and Ms. Knightley - but still!)

So for this day only, I will savor the inadvertent, utterly superficial validation from my doctor, validation that should only exist for girls ages 10-17. This doesn't mean I'm not going to try to lose 5-10 more pounds before my wedding. But it will do for today.

The more you know.

2011-04-03T13:03:00.007-05:00

My friend, an attorney in a law firm, is also leaving his current position. His new job is pretty sweet: in-house counsel at a Fortune 300 company. After it was announced that he was leaving his position in a couple weeks, a few other attorneys in his practice group asked him to let them know if there are any additional openings in his new company.

What he said was "Absolutely."

What he thought was "HELL no."

He has seen the shady, underhanded things they do, the shortcuts they make, and the lapses in judgment. He's seen them drop the ball and blame it on someone else. He witnessed them breaching another coworker's privacy. Gossip, back-stabbing, and tattling to the partners--the list goes on.

"Why the fuck would I want to bring them over to my company?" he asked me. "Not only would they fuck up everything, they would make me look bad for recommending them."

"You have a point," I said.

"And the thing is, they KNOW that I know their shady bullshit. Do they really think I want my new company to hire a bunch of back-stabbing, incompetent lazy-asses?"

"Well, maybe they thought you guys were such good pals, you'd recommend them anyway," I said. He started shaking his head vehemently while I was talking. "Also, maybe they thought it wouldn't hurt to ask."

"Oh hell no," he said.

Amused by his growing agitation, I said, "Or, honestly, maybe they didn't think they did anything wrong."

After I said that, I think his head almost exploded. It made me laugh, but he didn't think it was that funny.

So what's the lesson here? It is perhaps a corollary to the "Don't burn bridges" axiom: Don't be a back-stabbing, incompetent lazy-ass. Or at least don't let your bosses or coworkers know you are a back-stabbing, incompetent lazy-ass.

Because you never know.

I choose (2).

2011-03-25T17:38:00.007-05:00

To respond to my post below, (2) is worse.

In other words, I'm leaving my job for another job.

At first, I really didn't want to. My current job is just so damn comfortable. But after some lengthy contemplation (i.e., typical Yellow Gal neurotic fretting) and lengthy discussions, I decided to take the leap into another role. Something more challenging, a little scary, but hopefully more promising.

It definitely helped to hear my senior manager tell me that if, down the road, I ever changed my mind about leaving, I would be welcome back.

Now the goal is to maintain efficiency for the two remaining weeks I have left without lapsing into Slacker Mode (last triggered during senior year of high school).

Then the next new adventure begins.

Which is worse:

2011-03-18T14:15:00.002-05:00

(1) Taking a chance, and regretting you did?

or

(2) Not taking a chance, and regretting you didn't?

Ironic thing is, you cannot know whether or not you regret something until you already regret it.

Frak!

What do you want to be when you grow up?

2011-03-12T14:23:00.006-06:00

People stop asking you this question by the time you reach your twenties because: (1) you are already grown up, and (2) you should already know what you want to be.

I've reached most of my nominal goals in my life, and still I wonder. The question now isn't exactly what do I want to be, but what do I want to have achieved in my lifetime?

When I reach the end of my life, I'd like to be able to look back and say, "I've lived a full life. And I'm happy I did all that I achieved."

I feel a number of cultural forces vying within me at this point in my life. There is the desire to reach my utmost intellectual potential. My parents bred us kids to study, do our best, and achieve as much as we could. We were blessed with above-average IQs and were somehow commissioned with the duty to live our lives to our fullest potential.

Then there is the desire to be a balanced family person, to have a social life with friends and family. My parents worked 12-hour days every day because they had to, given our modest circumstances, and left us kids at home alone to eat TV dinners and have our after-school meetings and concerts without a parent in the audience. I always envied the other kids whose parents were there to pick them up or greet them at home when they came home from school.

But you can't have it all, can you? You can't reach the top of your company by working strictly 9 to 5. And you can't work 12-hour days and be there for your kid's play or orchestra concert.

So then the question becomes, "What will you regret more?"

I remember speaking to a lawyer who left her large firm job to work at a smaller firm with more reasonable hours. And she told me with a sense of regret that she made sacrifices detrimental to her career because she was a mother.

Currently, I feel like I've plateaued in my position. There was a steep learning curve, but I got the hang of it pretty quickly. My managers like me, I've received glowing reviews, and I'm on top of my game. The downside is, I don't feel very intellectually challenged. I stated as much in my most recent review, and my managers said they'd give me more opportunities. But I look at people who've been with the company for years, and I don't see them in intellectually stimulating positions. It's mostly project management, sprinkled with bouts of minimally higher-level thinking.

The job is, however, very relaxed. I have very flexible hours with flexible coworkers and managers. I am rarely stressed and I know that this job would be ideal for someone with an active family life.

I know there are jobs that are more intellectually stimulating, but they are perhaps more stressful or require more hours. And I really don't want to be a deadbeat parent.

So there seem to be two sides of the spectrum: (1) staying in an intellectually-bereft job with the flexibility to be an involved parent and spouse, or (2) pursuing a more ambitious, stimulating position with social limitations. There must be a balance between the two scenarios.

I suppose, though, that in the end I'd rather have my family and friends by my side on my deathbed, rather than a 10-digit bank account balance and a nice title at a company.

Hmm, maybe the answer lies there.

The unmentionable stereotype

2011-02-13T22:50:00.004-06:00

So as I alluded to in my previous post, the girls (all of whom are yellow girls) spoke about penis length. Simply put, they said that all yellow guys were small and that yellow guys of our shade of yellow (i.e., ethnicity) were the smallest of all the Asians.

One yellow girl dated one--and only one--yellow guy, and his penis happened to be literally one inch long, erect. Based on this one--and only one--experience, she deduced that the entire Asian male population must be one inch in length erect, and has dated only non-Asian men since then. WTF?

I said to her point blank, "I would not judge an entire race's penis based on the penis of one guy." She could only acknowledge my opinion with an indifferent shrug.

Another yellow girl, however, noted that every yellow penis she has seen was one to two inches in length. WTF?

I have, ahem, dated non-yellow men. And believe me, there are indeed one-inchers outside the Asian race. There are also one-footers within the Asian race. Relegating Asian men to sexual stereotypes is akin to relegating Asian women to sexual stereotypes. If there is one Japanese nymphomaniac girl who has a gang-bang fetish, does this translate to all Asian women being nymphomaniacs who have gang-bang fetishes?

I don't know why I get so defensive over this conversation, seeing as my Fiance isn't the same shade of yellow I am. I have to admit though, it is not the first time a yellow gal has made those observations to me. Asian girls of various ethnicities, from East Asian to South Asian, and even non-Asian girls have made similar sexual stereotype-laden observations to me. A fair number of my yellow friends date only white guys in part because of the size difference. But also a fair number of them have dated/are married to other Asian guys.

So what does all this mean? I was clearly in the minority in the group. I knew that nothing I could say or argue would change the minds of these women because few things are more persuasive or damning than personal experience. As a yellow guy told me, stereotypes exist for a reason: they are based, in part, on truth.

Still, though. Yellow stereotypes get under my skin.

Out of the club

2011-02-13T22:33:00.004-06:00

So went the "girls' night out." It was "okay," for the most part.

The thing was, I felt mostly left out.

A core group of the girls were single and chatted nonstop about boys, single life, and dating standards. I tried to chime in when I could, but because I am apparently no longer a card-carrying member of the Single Girls' Club, my opinions were largely disregarded.

Hello, I still remember what it was like to date. Doesn't that earn me some street cred? It's been a few years, but still!

It also didn't help that I wasn't as tight with some of the more vocal single girls. I suppose every group has that dynamic.

Anyhow, the topics covered included, among other things, male pattern baldness, height, race, chivalry, wealth, penis length, physical attractiveness, and social retardation. Only one of the girls actually posed a question to me, "So how's wedding planning?"

When one of the girls mentioned her sister was pregnant, I was the only one who exclaimed, "Oh my god, that's wonderful!" The other ladies looked at her with concerted indifference, as if she were reciting the weather forecast from two weeks ago.

So in the end, it was fine. But being the only girl with a ring on my finger that evening, I felt a bit...alienated. I suppose when one door opens, another door closes, and I can no longer partake in the excitement and glamor of modern single life. I can only sit in the periphery of a booth table at a bar and listen nostalgically to angst-ridden, inside-joke-laden stories of the single life I've already lived.

Um, maybe not

2011-02-11T17:29:00.009-06:00

A girlfriend just informed us that she invited a few guys out to the bar tonight.

Um, I thought this was a girls' thing?

Also, she joked that a couple of the other single girls might be inviting their "male acquaintances." Once again, the opposite sex finds ways of infiltrating our free time.

Oh, and it gets better: one of the guys who is coming out tonight is someone I went on a few dates with a few years ago who was a really bad kisser. Oh and he might bring a "female friend" with him too.

Should be FUN! After discovering all these men were coming/invited tonight, I invited the Fiance along, but he declined. For some reason, he'd rather stay at home and watch TV rather than come out with a gaggle of girls and their random male connections. The fact that I briefly dated one of these dudes didn't even faze him.

Now, instead of a girls' night out, it's a girls-meeting-up-with-random-guys' night out.

So much for my grand notion of having my own golden girls.

Friday night

2011-02-10T20:24:00.005-06:00

Tomorrow night is going to be a "girls' night out." We're watching a show, we're eating wings, and we're drinking 'til god knows when. It's been a while since I've had a girls' night out.

In the last several years, my social circle has predictably dwindled to my sig other. And now that marriage, children and a two-car garage are on the horizon, the prospect of going to a bar and ogling/turning down the advances of strange men doesn't sound as exciting to me as it did before.

Man, I'm old.

The other night, I was having a nice dinner with the Fiance, when I noticed a table across the room where three gray-haired ladies were enjoying their meals. I watched them banter, sip their red wine, and laugh hysterically. They seemed to transform into high school girls. It looked like the kind of friendship that had weathered decades of heartache, drama with the in-laws, teenage children, and mortgage payments.

I wondered to myself, am I going to have my own golden girls? Will I still be having a girls' night out in my sixties, except eating medium rare steak with red wine instead of wings with beer?

One can only hope. So, in spite of my newfound homebody-ness, I am going out. Not all out.

But out with the girls.

Acceptance of props

2011-02-08T14:16:00.004-06:00

I suspect that as a woman, I have a hard time accepting props. I read somewhere that when someone compliments you, you shouldn't argue with the complimenter. Just accept the compliment and say "Thank you."

Some examples:

Coworker says: "Wow, you did a great job writing that memo."

Instead of saying: "Oh, no, it was a really easy subject, so it didn't require that much effort or intelligence to begin with, plus I had a lot of help from ten other people."

One should say: "Thank you. I'm glad I could help out the team."

Friend says: "Oh my god, your new haircut looks amazing!"

Instead of saying, "Oh, no, it's a little lopsided, and it makes random wavy hair look even wavier, not to mention it shows how thin my hair is and emphasizes my big forehead."

One should say: "Thank you. I like it too!"

I got a lot better at accepting props with time. Once in a while, I'll get props that I don't think I deserve. So sometimes I literally have to stop and remind myself to say "Thank you."

By arguing with the complimenter, you are: (1) putting yourself down and making yourself look worse, and (2) calling the complimenter a liar. Sometimes my friends argue with me when I compliment them, and it frustrates me.

So when someone says you're awesome, it means you're awesome, damnit. Accept the props!

Don't know, don't care

2011-01-25T17:59:00.010-06:00

I saw a commercial for a search website the other day. A woman was sitting on the couch with her laptop. While surfing the web, she clicked on something and suddenly discovered that several people were searching for her. Her face instantly lit up and she exclaimed something to the effect of: "All of these people are searching for me? Wow!"

Wow indeed. You have a bunch of stalkers.

Okay okay, not all people who search for someone are necessarily stalkers. We've all probably been guilty of googling folks, unbeknownst to them.

Interestingly though, there are a quite few websites that search for those who are searching for you:

http://www.whoissearchingforme.com/
http://people411search.com/
http://who-me.com/

Honestly though, I don't think I would ever sign up for that kind of search service. I don't want to know if people are searching for me. I don't care if it's an ex-boyfriend, some guy I had a huge crush on in high school, an old friend I lost touch with, or someone from the missed connections page from Craigslist. If they are important to me, I am already in touch with them.

Which brings me to an interesting thing I just learned. I was on LinkedIn, just checking up on my contacts, when I decided to view my profile. On the lower right hand corner of my profile page, there was a box that read, "Viewers of this profile also viewed..." and listed other random people who may or may not be connected to me.

I then saw a name that looked strange to me. I clicked on it, and it was obviously a fabricated LinkedIn page (zero connections, nonsensical name, fake employer name). However, I saw just enough clues to realize who it was: Some crazy dude I had a fling with years ago.

Now, perhaps, it was some random third party who happened to view my profile and this other fake profile. But remembering how crazy the guy was back then, I knew better. He had created a fake profile and was looking at my profile.

Needless to say, it freaked me out just a little. In terms of level of freaked-out-ness, it wasn't quite the "Oh crap, I'm pregnant!"-level, but closer to the "Oh crap, I left my passport on the airplane"-level. Harmless, nothing life-altering, but creepy nonetheless.

The question is, why create this fake profile, only to plant those clues for me to see? He picked a fake name that was eerily similar to his name. And the fake employer name was also a permutation of his employer's name. So instead of "Bill Gates" working at "Microsoft," it said "Williamford Tages" working at "Macroshaft." If he wanted to completely hide his identity, why didn't he make it "John Smith" working at "Smith, Inc."? What would it accomplish to give me clues that he was searching for me? And why is he looking me up years later?

It's a little creepy because the flingship ended pretty badly -- lots of drama, lots of hard feelings, lots of third parties getting involved, which bloomed into more drama. To this day, it remains a black mark on my permanent dating record.

So, seriously, this -- [insert vehement hand-gesturing] -- is why I don't need to know if someone is searching for me. Because it raises all of these unanswerable questions. Questions I don't want to think about. Questions I don't want to know the answers to.

Which leads me to my next point: Don't you wish you could take all the people you dated in the past, and transport them into another dimension where you would never have to see (or worry about seeing) them again? This is a little more humane than hoping they were all dead. They would all be unscathed, but in a separate universe where you would be completely unbothered from eery LinkedIn search results, Facebook friend suggestions, or accidental/misdialed phone calls.

I know the universe does not revolve around me, but if it did and I were omnipotent, that would be one of the first tweaks I'd make to existence. (God, if you are listening, this is a hint.)

"Hierarchies"

2011-01-22T13:03:00.013-06:00

I saw a bit a while ago from Carlos Mencia on Asians. Mencia is unapologetically irreverent and a self-described "equal opportunity offender." If you're offended by ethnic slurs, then you should probably not listen to his comedy, nor should you continue reading this blog entry.

**Please be warned that I type out racist slurs in this blog entry, and I do so as quotations only, and not in the pejorative sense.**

In one show, Mencia spoke about the apparent hierarchy among Asians, using some pretty strong ethnic slurs, which I will quote. According to Mencia, the Chinese were at the "top" of the Asian hierarchy, while the Vietnamese were "pretty much niggers of the community." He said that Filipinos were the "beaners" of the Asian community because they're "just like [Mexicans] - [they]'re indigenous people that got banged by some Spaniards."

I wondered about his categorizations. Is there a hierarchy of Asian ethnicities in the general Asian community?

I'd say so.

My Korean friend was dating a non-Korean Asian guy and was a little nervous about telling her parents about him. Finally, one day she told her mom, "I'm dating someone Asian...but not Korean."

Her mom paused for a moment, sensing something in my friend's voice. "I can tell by the way you tell me that he is either Filipino or Vietnamese."

He was Vietnamese.

My friend from law school (who is Caucasian) once hosted a Japanese exchange student during college. He told me how eager he was to show her their town's local Asian supermarket. They drove into the parking lot of the supermarket, which was apparently Chinese. The student suddenly changed her mind and did not want to go inside. He had no idea why.

I interrupted him and said, "Is it because she thought it was 'dirty'?"

He looked at me, startled, and said, "That's exactly what she said. She said because it was Chinese, it was dirty. I was totally shocked."

My friend (a Filipina gal) was chatting with a Chinese dude, and he actually "ranked" the Asian ethnicities. #1: Chinese, #2: Japanese, #3: Korean...and at the bottom were the Filipinos. (Yes, he said it to her face.) I have heard other Asians say that the Vietnamese were at the bottom.

From what I've seen and heard, the racist Asian hierarchy seems to place the East Asians (Koreans, Japanese, and Chinese) at the top, and the Southeast Asians (Vietnamese, Cambodians, Filipinos, etc.) at the bottom. The South Asians (Indians, Pakistani's, etc.) are around the bottom too.

For a population that is stereotypically smart and educated, we can be pretty racist and ignorant. I think some of the most racist comments I have heard firsthand were from Asian Americans. We're not only racist against other races, we're racist against ourselves!

But when you think about it, aren't there racist hierarchies among other races? An African American coworker was talking to me about the African American community. She was very very light-skinned and told me how there was a divide between darker-skinned women and lighter-skinned women like herself. I heard a radio talk show host, who was light-skinned as well, talk about how he experienced the same disparity when he was in college.

And I don't need to mention Chris Rock's controversial bit on "Niggas vs. Black People."

I would venture to guess there is even a "hierarchy" among European ethnicities. In the U.S. at least, I would say that, if there were a perceived hierarchy, those of English or German ancestry look down on those of Irish, Scottish or Italian ancestry. And aren't the Aryan features of blond hair and blue eyes superior to those of the brown-eyed brunettes?

I don't think any of this racism (or "ethnicism") will go away anytime soon.

In the end, I guess every race - regardless of which race - is an equal opportunity racist.

So I think I made my coworker cry.

2011-01-20T21:06:00.002-06:00

Not intentionally of course. But I had to review some of her work product. And, quite frankly, there were a lot of mistakes.

I began marking up her work with a red pen because that is my default color to use when correcting mistakes. But then there were so many mistakes, the ink began to run together, so I began using a green pen. I also used a yellow highlighter to mark the fields of the work that were deficient. It took me a few hours to mark up, and in the end the entire mark-up looked like a red, yellow, and green mess. I left it on her desk so that she would see it the first thing the next morning.

OKAY SO I KNOW what it's like to work hard on something and have it returned to you bleeding with mark-ups. You get pissed off. You feel defensive. It's personal because this is your work and someone else is criticizing it. I get it. I've had it done to me. But if I wrote "1 + 1 = 3," and someone crosses out the 3 and puts a 2, I might not be happy about it, but I get it.

Anyhow, the next morning, I could tell my coworker was a little pissed. There were instructions about the project that the supervisor never relayed to her. In fact, some misinformation was communicated to her, which forced her to redo a lot of her work.

I felt bad. And even apologized to her for giving her so much work to do. She said it wasn't my fault, just some misinformation was communicated to her, and she was frustrated.

Anyhow, I walked by her desk later in the afternoon. She was talking to another coworker, and I saw that her face was bright red. She blew her nose and dabbed her face quickly, but I saw a couple tears fall down her cheek.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" I said. The other coworker looked at me and smiled sympathetically.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just having a bad day. Stressed at work, things going on at home. Whatever, I'll get over it." She blew her nose again.

I felt bad. "Oh, I'm sorry." I didn't know what to say. I wasn't that close with her, but I felt really bad that she was feeling so crummy. I almost felt guilty for being so harsh on her work, but I had to be - if I didn't, the end work product would have been patently defective.

So yeah. That was my first time being on the other side of the fence.

Bleh.

RSVP no

2011-01-14T11:25:00.002-06:00

I've noticed that some people like to feel victimized. When something doesn't go their way, or some mishap befalls them, they curl into a fetal position and bemoan how the cruel, unfair world is out to get them.

I know this because I have done this.

Frankly, we've all probably thrown ourselves a pity party or few in our lives when things just suck. So I have to wonder, why do we feel the need to feel like victims? Like the world is out to get us? Isn't that counterintuitive? Perhaps it is a mechanism to deal with negative events in our lives. There is some glory to being a martyr.

When I hung out a lot more with a Debbie Downer friend, I used to think that being positive took affirmative effort. That the default mood was depression and angst, and to arise from that default mood, one had to summon the extra energy to not be depressed or angst-ridden. But now I think it's about frame of mind.

Like most people, I get annoyed from time to time about stupid b.s. at work. Someone drops the ball because he procrastinated on a project. So you're the one who has to take on his workload. Someone was lazy and didn't feel like doing something. So you're the one who has to take on his workload.

Usually, in a perfect universe, when Person A fucks up, Person A is the one who must deal with the consequences. At work, however, when Person A fucks up, Yellow Gal is the one who has to deal with the consequences. At this point -- when the work mishaps combine with my In-A-Perfect-Universe ponderings -- I begin selecting the font and text for the invitations to my pity party.

Instead of getting mad, however, I should change my frame of mind. Instead of thinking, "Because of these lazy fuckups, I need to work late," I should remind myself that the more work that I do, the more valuable I become as an employee. And, without throwing anyone under the bus, I need to let my managers know that I've done more than my share of work.

If Person A has only accomplished projects 1 and 2 during the calendar year, and if Yellow Gal has accomplished projects 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, during the calendar year, a reasonable manager would surmise that, when it comes to raises, promotions, or (god forbid) layoffs, Yellow Gal is probably the more valuable candidate.

The key is to self-promote. (Or so they tell me.) The old school ethic of working hard and hoping the higher ups will notice won't fly. Unfortunately, the old school ethic of working hard and hoping the higher ups will notice seems to be the classic, stereotypical Asian work ethic.

I detest people who brag about themselves. You know the ones. They dominate the conversation at lunch or board meetings, regaling everyone within earshot with tales of their valor on Project A, Presentation B, or Client C. They boast, they laugh at their own jokes, and they heartily agree and nod when they get props. I really dislike those people. And no matter what, I don't think I could ever be That Asshole.

So there seems to be a fine line between cockiness and confidence. I just need to find it and remind myself: as people pile more shit on you, remember to let the higher ups know. In the end, it makes the shitpilers look lazy, and makes you look awesome.

Pity party averted.

Resilience

2011-01-07T13:06:00.005-06:00

A coworker just told me about her ex-husband and how, at her son's wedding, she did not want to walk her son down the aisle with her ex-husband.

Now everyone harbors ill will towards an ex, right? Then she told me what he did. He:

(1) cheated on her during their marriage,
(2) left her and their children, and
(3) told her the reason he cheated on her and left her was because she was fat and ugly.

Wow.

Honestly, I couldn't believe he did that to her. The sad thing was that she believed what he said . . . for years. She believed that, if she were more attractive, if she were thinner, perhaps the family would still be together. She believed that it was her fault that he cheated on her and left her.

I couldn't imagine the kind of damage that line of thinking does to a woman. As she told me her story, though, she seemed totally recovered from the trauma. She moved past it, apparently, and can now look back on it when some objectivity. And she ended up walking her son down the aisle with her ex.

But seriously, how do you get over that? I'm not sure I could.

I never cease to be amazed by the strength of some people.

The hurtful truth

2011-01-04T10:08:00.007-06:00

Did you ever have to have a conversation you really, really, really did not want to have, but you had to have?

I do.

It's nothing terrible, shady, or heart-breaking. But I run the risk of offending someone deeply and personally. This conversation may even strain the friendship. But I have to do this. I want to tell the person directly, rather than allowing the person hear it from someone else.

To make myself feel better, I will list other conversations that are no doubt MORE difficult to have than the one I'm about to have with my friend.

Difficult conversations between friends:

-"I want to end this friendship."
-"The reason I don't hang out as much is that none of my friends like you."
-"I think your boyfriend/husband is cheating on you."
-"I slept with your boyfriend/husband."

Difficult conversations between significant others in a relationship:

-"I can't have children."
-"I have a sexually transmitted disease. It has no cure."
-"I don't love you anymore."
-"I cheated on you."

Okay, that didn't make me feel better. In fact, that was actually a little depressing to write out. I hope that no one ever has to say/hear these things. But if they do, props for having the guts to say it.

Sometimes I feel like my decisions are based on the lesser of two evils - which course of action will cause less anxiety/pain? Biting the bullet and telling the person the bad news directly? Or having the person find out this information from someone else, or some other way?

I might know the answer to this question, but it doesn't mean I like it.

Ascension from a pissy mood

2010-12-17T09:59:00.004-06:00

There is so much negativity and tension in the world. It circulates around us, among us, and within us. It seemingly emanates from strangers, coworkers, and--most potently--our friends and family. Each interaction is coated with this toxic negativity.

Sometimes I feel it build within me. The pent-up resentment, the irritation. It boils beneath the surface. I imagine scenarios where I blow up at the wrong-doers, self-righteous in my anger and victimization.

But now I'm telling myself this: In the end, all the bullshit we get worked up over will mean nothing. Don't succumb to the toxic negativity. Rise above it. Be honest with yourself and with others. And have compassion for the people who live day to day in bitter resentment until they die. Because life is short, and we have only so long to make most of the time we have.

My father passed away when he was 67. And I'm almost halfway to his age. I will likely die of a heart attack like he did, thanks to heredity. I avoid fried food, red meat and pork, and exercise several times a week to toll my genetic death clock.

But one day, I will die. And in the moments right before I die, I might look back at my life, and wonder why I got worked up over bullshit. It was all so meaningless, and I should have spent more time being happy.

Hopefully I will have that deathbed-epiphany sooner rather than later.

Hintidy hint hint

2010-12-10T20:51:00.004-06:00

It's a common to cite the great irony of America being obsessed with weight, but also having the most of it.

Recently, my company has been posting Weight Watchers posters all around the office. In the facility's cafeteria. On the tables. On walls. Near the bathroom. By the water fountain. Near every exit and stairwell and elevator. Not to mention, we seem to get weekly company-wide emails promoting the company's subsidized Weight Watchers program.

Is this a hint? Are they calling us fat?

Sure, there is a rotund coworker or twenty around the office. But this blatant pushing of Weight Watchers on us is getting borderline offensive.

Imagine if a boyfriend or spouse did this. You come home from work, and on the door is a Weight Watchers poster. You open the fridge, and there is a Weight Watchers ad. You sit at the dining room table, and there is a Weight Watchers flier. You check your email, and you see a Weight Watchers email from him.

I think most men in that situation would their balls chopped off.

Anyway, I get it. The company wants to lower their subsidized health insurance costs, particularly those related to heart-disease, diabetes, obesity, etc. So they only want to help you so they can help themselves.

I wish there was a way of implementing this initiative without feeling like we're being passive-aggressively told that we're fat.

Sheesh.

Hacked!

2010-12-10T15:04:00.003-06:00

So I am one of those people who have several different email accounts, one "real" email account, one for my blog, one for spam, etc. Well, one of the ones that used to be my "real" email account but now a back-up email account got hacked! Some logged into my account and spammed all my contacts!

This is the FIRST time I've been hacked. I'm pretty good at detecting phishing emails and spoofed websites. I update my antivirus and antispyware pretty regularly (almost neurotically). But somehow, somewhere, something got through!

So, aside from feeling somewhat violated that my email account got hacked and also feeling mortified that all my contacts got spammed, I realized that all these people from my past, whom I never deleted from my contacts, were spammed as well.

This includes: ex-boyfriends, toxic friends, and friends-turned-enemies. I'm sure all of them were pleased to see an email from Yellow Gal waxing eloquent on the virtues of Viagra.

How embarrassing!

Fortunately, so far, none of my former acquaintances replied back with a, "Hey, how's it going, you bitch?" response.

So far.

Argh. So embarrassing.

Yellow truth

2010-11-27T12:41:00.004-06:00

I called my mom's house on Thanksgiving Day to wish her a happy thanksgiving. No one picked up the phone. I called her cell phone, twice, and left her a message. No returned call. I also called my brother and left a voicemail. Again, no returned call.

The day came and went, and I hadn't heard from any of them. Then I thought, maybe they were in a terrible accident and they're in the hospital. But wouldn't someone have called me?

I called the house again on the Friday after Thanksgiving. My mom picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, mom."

"Oh, hi." She then proceeded to answer a question I had asked two voicemails ago.

Then I said, "So how was your thanksgiving?"

"Oh it was good. It was just your brother and I so we went to Old Country Buffet," she said. "It was so crowded. How was yours?"

"Oh, it was good too. Had it with another couple, and we brought some side dishes."

"Oh, good to hear it was good."

"So, um, why didn't you call me back yesterday?"

"Oh," she said. Then she gave a huff of a laugh and said, "Oh, cell phone reception is bad here."

That's funny. Cell phone reception seems to work fine the other 649,932,091 times you've called me to ask about how to turn on the computer or change your screensaver.

"Oh, um, okay," I said. "Well, talk to you later."

"Take care," she said.

"Bye."

So my mom is lame. Emotionally unavailable and lame. Which I hate to admit, but I am too sometimes. I suppose I could have called my mom out on her lameness and stated the italicized thought above. But then would I have wanted to hear the Yellow truth? That she didn't want to call me back and wish me a happy thanksgiving? That these holiday sentiments are a product of my American assimilation and only encourage maudlin triteness? That, quite frankly, she didn't want to talk to me that day or the day before?

I told the Fiance this and he is always hesitant to rag on my mom. He just hoped we wouldn't be like that with our kids.

Here's to hoping that emotional unavailability is a cultural trait, not a genetic one.

Super ordinary

2010-11-27T11:51:00.005-06:00

I am a fan of superheroes. I'm not a supernerd or anything; I don't collect comic books or study the genre and all subgenres of superheroes. I'm just a general fan of stories involving people with extraordinary powers.

Superheroes seem to be born with their powers, or acquire it later in life. Also, their powers are sometimes alien or chemically-induced (or supernatural) in nature, or an enhancement of their own naturally existing skills. Like Superman versus Batman. Wolverine versus Iron Man.

On the History Channel, Stan Lee (creator of Spiderman, X-men, among others) has a show about superhumans, which explores the premise that there were (and are) people with "superpowers."

So I asked myself the question anyone who has ever read or watched a superhero story line would ask herself: What would my superpower be?

Hmm. I can make my eyes, hands, and feet water at will. Not exactly appetizing, I know. But I never need rewetting drops. And when I'm at the supermarket and I encounter those superthin, plastic produce bags that are nearly impossible to open, I make my finger moisten at will and then am able to open the bag.

Okay, so it's not really a fantastic superpower, unless I could produce amounts massive enough to stop a bank robbery or prevent a truck from exploding.

I can also remember details of things that I hear about or experience. At first, I thought all my friends had early onset of Alzheimer's because they couldn't remember all the details I remembered. But it turns out I just have a better memory than most people.

If I see a movie once, I can recite lines from it. If someone tells me a story about someone at a random cocktail party, I can recall all the details of that story years later.

I don't forget people I meet, so frequently, I'm in the situation of meeting people for the second time, and they don't remember me because the encounter was so brief.

My old buddy the Naysayer has dated countless women over the past several years. And I remember all of them--even better than the Naysayer himself.

"Who was that girl I dated with the nice hair?" he asks me.

"Was it first year or second year of grad school?" I respond.

"First year."

"Okay, that was Rita."

"What about that girl in college I met at a party?"

"The one who baked you cookies?"

"Uh...yeah..."

"Allison."

I'm not sure how this "power" really helps either. It's not that I'm a superlearner. I remember "human" facts, like stories about people, faces, and events. And it's not that I was great at history in high school--in fact, I disliked history. I think it has to do with experiencing the human facts as they happen.

Okay, okay, so I'm not going to be a superhero anytime soon. But it's nice to think that if some interstellar, cataclysmic event occurred...I could be.

A not good guy

2010-11-13T12:30:00.008-06:00

I was chatting with Yellow Mom on the phone today. She asked how the Fiance and I are doing. "Good," I said.

"Things are good? That's good," she replied.

"Yep, things are good."

"You know, that's good that things are good," she continued. "You're not an easy person to live with."

I laughed. "The feeling is mutual."

"You need to be with someone good. Especially with your personality."

Normally, I would take this as a blatant attack on my lovability; but I understand exactly what she's talking about.

I know I get cantankerous sometimes for no reason at all. I take things out of context, take things personally, or respond sensitively to random remarks. Yes, these are my flaws, and sometimes I'm amazed that there's someone out there who will put up with it.

"You know," she continued, "it's good that Fiance is a good man. The number one quality to look for in a husband is that he is a good man."

Well, duh, I thought to myself.

"Money, education, intelligence," she said, "those are secondary to being a good person."

"Okay," I said.

"I mean, those are important," she qualified, "but goodness is number one."

"I get it," I said. "Yes, Fiance is a good man. He tolerates me and is patient with me."

"Good," she said.

I never really thought it would be a question: every chick wants a good man, right? I mean, isn't being a good person a fundamental trait that the One must have?

Then I thought about it. There are some women who are drawn to bad guys. Yes, there are really bad guys, like the ones who molest kids and moonlight as hitmen. Then there are bad guys, like the ones who cheat on their women. And then there are not-really-bad-but-bad guys.

My friend, "Angela," is dating a guy whom she is absolutely crazy about. She thinks he's super good-looking, intelligent, and funny. They've talked about marriage and kids. They've even looked at rings.

But there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. I'm not exactly sure if he's a not-really-bad-but-but guy, or just a guy who is not good for my friend. Here's the background:

When they first started dating and hooking up, he started kicking it to a mutual friend of ours, "Beth." While still dating Angela, he sent text messages to Beth, asked how she was doing, and wanted to chat with her some time. He said lately he had been just staying in these past weekends, keeping it low key. He called her nicknames, like "shorty."

Later, we find out that he had been "staying in" all right, staying in and hooking up with Angela.

Now, technically speaking, the guy didn't do anything wrong. Angela and the dude weren't exclusively dating at the time he started kicking it to Beth. Until a couple Defines The Relationship, both parties are free agents. And even if they were in a relationship, he still didn't do anything wrong. He was just being "friendly" with Beth.

Still though, a little shady, no? Why would you kick it to a girl while having sex with her friend?

Notwithstanding this blip, the couple proceeded to Define The Relationship and became an official item.

I, however, noticed other red flags. For one, he constantly checks out other girls in front of his girlfriend, Angela, points out how fine these other women's tits/ass/legs are, and then proceeds to encourage Angela to hit the gym more often.

Is this "bad" behavior? He isn't abusing her or cheating on her.

When I hang out with him in a group (and Angela isn't there), he frequently begins his sentences with, "Man, if I were single":

"Man if I were single, I'd be going out every weekend instead of staying in."

"Man if I were single, I'd get a Porsche."

"Man if I were single, I'd be dating 18-year-olds." [Note: plural 18-year-olds. Also note: he is 35 years old, and so Angela.]

Now, he has never said, "I wish I were single." He simply fantasizes about being single.

I typically counter him by saying, "Dude, I've been single for 99% of my adult life. Dating is awful. Painful. I can't wait to not be single."

"Dating is not hard," he said. "You girls just don't know where to look, or you try too hard, or your standards are too high."

"I just I feel like I've been there, done that," I responded. "And I'm done. Done with the mind games, the Rules, the high hopes and the disappointments. Done with weeding through socially retarded guys. Done with dating. It's time for the next phase of my life."

He didn't seem to get it.

So is it me? Or does it seem like my friend's boyfriend isn't ready to settle down? More than that, he seems a little disrespectful towards her. He doesn't abuse her. But checking out a hot chick, pointing out her 36-DDD breasts and 23 inch waist, and asking his girlfriend why she can't hit the gym more just doesn't strike me as something that a "good" guy would do. On top of that, in front of our friends, he nagged her about hitting the gym -- I repeat, in front of her friends. Bear in mind, she is in no way FAT. Just because she isn't Jessica Alba doesn't mean she's FAT.

Angela loves him so much and seems almost grateful that she "has" him. Her sister, who is a clinical psychologist, met the boyfriend. Afterward, Angela asked her sister what she thought.

"He's a nice guy. Charming, good-looking, likable," the sister said. "The only thing is--I'm only saying this because I love you--"

"What?" Angela said.

"He strikes me as the kind of guy who would cheat on you."

"Oh," she said. Of course, the sister is just being overprotective...or jealous...or right.

A year later, they're still dating. He hasn't proposed yet. And some of us hope he doesn't. I think that might make me a shitty friend. We should hope for the best for our friends, and if this guy makes Angela so happy, we should hope for the best for both of them, right? We have talked to her about the guy's shadiness, but she brushes it off. After all, there is no strong evidence that he is a bad guy.

He just strikes me as man who isn't exactly good.

You reap what you sow.

2010-11-10T22:16:00.001-06:00

Okay so I'm not running tonight. Looks like I'll be running a couple 9-mile days.

Not putting on my running shoes

2010-11-10T21:35:00.003-06:00

I don't particularly feel like running tonight. But I know I should. I try to run at least 25 miles a week, and I've got to do 18 more miles by 11:59 pm this Saturday. I can do a couple 9 mile days, but I'd rather not.

Sometimes I feel like I have to work off a debt. Like if I eat a piece of red velvet cake, a couple slices of pizza, or a few too many corn chips. I feel like running is the non-bulimic way of purging the bad calories. Exercise is the poor man's plastic surgery.

Sometimes I'm in a pissy/anxious/melancholy mood, and I run with the hope that it will lift my spirits. Exercise is the poor man's xanax.

And sometimes, I don't feel like running at all. I have to force myself against my will to wear my ratty t-shirt and shorts, pin my hair back in the most ridiculous yet effective way to keep the stray hairs from sticking to my face, slip on my double-knotted shoes, and step on the treadmill. I force myself to push the start button and force myself to listen to my iPod and run.

Run even though every fiber of my being rebels against it.

Run even though the song I paid 99 cents to download is doing absolutely nothing to motivate me.

Run even though it feels completely and utterly futile.

Run because I have to.

Sometimes, I ask myself while I'm doing it, "Why am I doing this? What exactly is compelling me to get on a machine and voluntarily subject myself to discomfort?"

Then I tell myself to just stop thinking about it. Accept the fact that you're going to run x miles, and it's gonna happen. Just run.

Asian Standard Time

2010-11-10T20:58:00.005-06:00

We all know about "Asian time." It basically means "being late."

If something starts at 5 pm, Asian Standard Time (AST) is probably 5:45 to 6 pm. If someone says they are ten minutes from your house, they are probably half an hour from your house.

It's something I've grown to accept from other Asians; and others have grown to accept that about me.

In any event, my fiance is the quintessence, the epitome, the personification of Asian Time.

It is maddening. For example:

Today, he tells me he'll be home around 8. Okay.

So I -- naively believing that he would be home at the time stated, even though every other time proves otherwise -- start the process of cleaning the pots and pans, cooking the brown rice, preparing veggies, and seasoning and heating chicken breasts.

8 pm rolls around and he's nowhere. I eat alone, watch some Hulu, and look at the clock. It's 8:30. At this point, I text him when will he be home. He doesn't respond.

At 8:50, I call him. He doesn't answer.

I call him again. He finally picks up. I ask him when he'll be home. "Yeah, we're all still hanging out," he says. "Maybe around...9:30?"

9:30? 9:30? In AST, that probably translates to 10 am the next morning.

I get annoyed and tell him, "If you weren't going to show up until 9:30, then just TELL me you're not going to show up at 9:30. Don't lie to me and say you're going to come home at 8 pm."

"Okay. Sorry." He then hangs up and proceeds to hang out at the bar he is at.

Now if this happened once or twice, I'd be whatevs about it. But it happens ALL THE TIME! I explicitly asked him to tell me what time he honestly things he'll be home, and if he's late, to give me a heads up. That's it. I don't care if he stays out until 11 pm -- just don't tell me you'll be home at 5 pm and show up at 11 pm. that's all I'm saying.

There's Asian time and then there's rude Asian time. I myself run on Asian time, but at least I text/call and say, "Sorry, I'm going to be fifteen minutes late." He doesn't.

I googled the subject of one's significant other coming home later than the time stated (yes, I googled it) and this woman was complaining on a message board about her husband doing a similar thing. All the other commenters chimed in and agreed. I felt slightly validated. It's not me. And it's not just me.

That's it. Just had to vent.

Hankering interrupted

2010-10-29T19:08:00.006-05:00

I was visiting Medium-Sized City in the Midwest and had a hankering for Korean food. One of my friends from law school (non-Asian) was born and raised there, and so I decided to ask her for restaurant recommendations.

"Hey," I asked her, "do you know any good Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City?"

"Hmm," she said, "Korean restaurants?"

"Yeah, Korean restaurants."

"Hmm," she said again. A long pause. "There's a Benihana's."

"Really," I said. "A Benihana's."

"Yeah," she said.

"Benihana's isn't Korean."

"Oh, well, I don't think there are any Korean restaurants."

Something about that conversation bugged me. First, I later learned that there were in fact Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City. She just didn't know (or didn't care to know) about them. Maybe it bugs me that the extent of "exotic food" people will try is the Olive Garden or, if they're particularly adventurous, P.F. Chang's.

Second, a Japanese chain is not an acceptable substitute for Korean food. Maybe all East Asians "look the same" but their cuisine is not.

Yes, I realize my post reeks of coastal snobbery. I know not all Caucasian girls born and raised in a medium-sized city in the Midwest will be completely ignorant of Korean restaurants or find that Korean food and Japanese food are interchangeable. I'm sure there are some who are probably very adventurous and have tried eating bats in Cambodia or marinated raw meat from Ethiopia.

I just haven't met any of them. But maybe I just need to make an effort to find them.

My new favorite "movie"

2010-10-23T09:23:00.002-05:00

on lawyers. Tragic yet funny.

The inevitability of familial nagging

2010-10-10T17:51:00.003-05:00

I see my life as temporal increments of nagging from my mom, other Yellow relatives, and family friends. Through their Yellow lens, life is not a series of achievements or milestones. It is defined solely by what is deficient and lacking.

When you're single:
How come no boyfriend?
Why are you still single?
What's wrong with you?

When you're in a relationship:
When are you two going to get married?
Has he proposed yet? Why not?
What's wrong with you?

When you're engaged:
How long before marry?
Why is your engagement so long?
What's wrong with you?

When you're married:
When are you going to have your first baby?
How long you wait before having kids?
What's wrong with you?

When you have you first child:
Congratulations - when is the next child coming along?
Have you begun saving for Harvard yet (Yale, safety)?
What's wrong with you?

When you have two children, one boy, one girl, both Harvard-educated:
Your son and daughter married with children yet?
How come you not ask them why not married? They should be married by now.
What's wrong with them?
And what's wrong with you?

So

2010-04-17T08:24:00.003-05:00

I'm engaged! It's only been a few weeks since he popped the question. It's pretty exciting stuff, and I'm happy.

We're beginning the wedding planning process which, judging from my few engaged friends who are frantically wedding planning, does not sound like a walk in the park. I acknowledge though that it is probably a rite of passage for those of us who don't want a city hall or Vegas wedding. (Though every bride has told me that at some point during the wedding planning process, she is tempted to elope. Eek.)

So things are, all in all, very very good.

One day last week, however, I get an email from my ex. The same ex whom I haven't spoken to since my last post about his snideness towards me. I told myself I'd never talk to him again because he contributes absolutely nothing positive to my life.

Well, he emailed me, basically asking me what was up and updating me on what was going on with him. For some reason, his email struck me as being pitiable. I kind of felt sorry for him. Like, the guy had to be pretty lonely to be contacting me out of the blue after about a year. And I don't flatter myself, I don't mean in a romantic-longing kind of way. For all I knew, he could still be dating the same girl he was dating when I last spoke with him.

It just struck me as being inexplicably sad.

So, should I respond? Should I ignore? Shouldn't I at least tell him I'm engaged? I thought I should.

So it was a matter of email or phone call. The Naysayer harped on me to call instead of emailing. Yes, it is tacky to tell someone you're engaged via email. But that rule applies to a friend or relative. This Ex is a scornful human being. Did he deserve the same courtesy that a normal decent human being deserved? Particularly if I told myself I'd never talk to him again?

Well, as the Naysayer pointed out, he was at one point a huge part of my life and a potential husband-to-be.

FINE, I decided to call him. And, yes, I got his voicemail. I left the most awkward voicemail ever.

"Hi. This is Yellow. -- um, Yellow Gal. I got your email and I'm returning it. With a phone call, I guess. Um. Yea, I have something I want to tell you. I'm at 555-555-5555. Talk to you soon. Thanks."

Dumb.

He called me back, and finally, I caught him on the phone.

"Well is it good news or bad news?" he said.

"Um, it's good news," I responded. I was inexplicably nervous. "I'm engaged."

"Ah, that's what I guessed," I could hear him fake-smile on the phone. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Is it because you're pregnant?"

"What?"

"You're pregnant, right? That's why you're getting married?"

"Um," I said, trying not to let him get to me, "judging by the fact that we're aiming for a spring 2011 wedding, no, it's not because I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was stifling a derisive laugh or just being incredibly self-deprecating. "It couldn't be...for love?" Then he chuckled awkwardly.

Folks, this man is 38 years old. Thirty-eight years old. He has practiced law for 13 years in a large law firm. And he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year old.

Another gem from our conversation was his question, "How much is the ring?" And, oh yeah, he asked me if I was pregnant another ten or eleven times.

And by the way, he is still dating the same he was dating from last year. So why the snide comments?

Anyway, while the phone call was unpleasant and irritating, I'm ultimately glad I did it. I know now, more than ever, that: (1) I dodged a bullet when I broke up with him, and (2) I am so incredibly lucky and fortunate to be with an awesome guy like my fiancé.

All right.

2009-08-24T23:01:00.001-05:00

So it's been ages--yes, AGES--since I've last blogged. I have to say, not much drama going on in my life. I've been at my new job for several months now, and I'm so much happier. I'm no longer practicing law, but am working in a company. So now my role is not so much based on dealing with shit that has already hit the fan (litigation) but rather, preventing the shit from hitting the fan in the first place (compliance). So sort of legal. But not practicing law, exactly.

I'm so much happier.

And I'm still with the same guy. It'll almost be two years in a month. It's weird. Life is strangely drama-free when you're in a normal steady relationship without mind games. I'm not saying we don't have our share of arguments; but I don't feel that anxiety and neurosis I typically feel when I really like a guy. (See past 283,549 blog entries.)

So to the extent anyone is still reading this, I'm doing aight.

Seriously

2009-05-16T14:36:00.002-05:00

I called my ex today just to update him on some good news. He was snide and dismissive. I really have no idea as to why I keep in touch with the guy. Is it delusional to think one can be friends with an ex? Obviously we each have moved on - he with his girlfriend, I with my boyfriend. And it's literally been six years since our relationship ended.

I suppose a part of my visceral reaction stems from his ability to get under my skin. He is very sarcastic and snide. Beyond David Spade.

Well, I always say we should cut out people from our lives who add nothing positive to our lives. I've done it before, and I'm more than happy to do it again.

Ok so maybe it was PMS

2009-05-16T14:35:00.000-05:00

Because I don't feel obese anymore. Yay.

Not PMS

2009-05-09T02:10:00.005-05:00

I feel fat. I know, I know, every girl no matter her weight or waist size will think/say those same words, except maybe Olympic athletes and the starving kids in Africa my mom always talks about.

But yeah. I feel fat. I look down at my thighs and each of them are enormous. Gargantuan. I can literally feel the fat bulging against the inside of my skin. It is a palpable pressure of mass, pressing against my skin, threatening to burst from my body. Sometimes I imagine poking my thigh with a needle, thinking a stream of fat will explode from my thigh.

If only it were that easy.

I feel disgusting and fat. I look in the mirror and see fat. Thighs that curve outward, thighs that touch each other, thighs that humiliate me on a daily basis. Every time I walk in front of someone or stand in an elevator with someone or walk up the stairs, I feel like my thighs and butt and thickness are just huge big signs that say "Fat Girl Walking." I feel like they're looking at me and thinking, "She can't pull off those pants. Chunk."

And there's my belly. Oh, Belly. Muffin Top. Flabby. It is an entity of its own, yet forming an alliance with my thighs to make me feel and look fat.

I run my 3-mile workouts, and it seems futile. I fantasize about taking a scalpel and carving out all the fat, jiggle and wiggle from my body, and leaving nothing but Angela Basset-esque toned athletic slender.

I feel the fat everywhere. On my arms. On my legs. Clinging to my neck, hanging onto my back, pressing against clothes that are threatening to tear at the seams.

ARGH. I feel fat.

Last night's dream

2009-05-04T12:08:00.002-05:00

Last night, I dreamt that my father was alive, and my mother had died.

I was in the house I grew up in, and I was looking in all the rooms for my dad. I knew he was somewhere. I looked in the master bedroom, and someone was sleeping there, but it wasn't my dad. It was a relative, I think. I went downstairs to the living room, and saw someone sleeping on the sofa. But again, it wasn't my dad, but another relative. Then I heard my mom's voice calling to me, muffled and distant, but from somewhere in the house. I followed her voice, walked upstairs, and discovered it was coming from my bedroom.

I opened my bedroom door, and there was my mother (presumably her ghost), sitting on the carpet, next to my bed, telling me casually there was my dad. On my bed, my dad was sleeping. I remember looking at his face, and saw that he had this pink plastic-like stubble on his face. They looked like tiny pink transparent flowers.

Then I started freaking out to my mom's ghost. I started bawling and saying how I had so many regrets and how I wished I said and did so many things before she died of her sickness. I was hysterically crying and couldn't get everything out fast enough.

And then...I woke up. After a moment, I realized, it was a dream, and it is my father who has passed; and my mother is still alive.

I'm not sure what it means. Now that I think about it, I wonder if those who were sleeping yet "alive" in my dream represented the dead. My dad's older brother did pass away, as well as my dad's parents and his nephew. I wonder if those sleeping relatives represented those passed relatives.

Very strange.

The perpetual issues of Love and Marriage

2009-05-02T13:18:00.005-05:00

I read a haunting article, aptly entitled "Why it’s OK to settle for Mr. Good Enough," written by Lori Gottlieb. It was forwarded to me by my recently single (and thus newly cynical) friend. Basically, the article advises single women to avoid holding out for Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves. Because that man does not exist. And fine, if a woman wants to spend her twenties and thirties looking for that, she's going to find out the hard way that he doesn't exist.

The author identified herself as one of those women who learned the hard way.

She waited for the perfect guy, and met a few great guys who never lived up to the Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves-standard. And now at age 40 with a kid (via sperm donor), she is beginning to realize that her chances of marrying Mr. "Okay" have dwindled, for various reasons including her age:

What I and many women who hold out for true love forget is that we won’t always have the same appeal that we may have had in our 20s and early 30s. Having turned 40, I now have wrinkles, bags under my eyes, and hair in places I didn’t know hair could grow on women.

Really, these are things that single women do not want to hear. Single women want to hear that everyone waits for and eventually finds their True Love and it all works out in The End because that's how the universe works.

Ms. Gottlieb pretty much says this is b.s.

Talk about a cautionary tale. I'm not sure if I 100% agree with this article. It is somewhat inapt in my case given that I am in a long-term relationship; but I know from my past experience and my friends' experiences that Ms. Gottleib articulates some of the fears that single women today harbor, and really hones in on them. Kind of like the elephant in the room. Ms. Gottlieb pretty much takes the elephant out of the corner, shines one or two hundred spotlights on it, and yells through a megaphone, "Here is the elephant. Acknowledge it or die alone."

Not a book review

2009-05-02T13:06:00.003-05:00

I just re-read The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The first time I read it was probably fifteen years ago, in high school, undoubtedly assigned to a class in an attempt to edify us about great American literature.

I could only remember two things about the book. First, it was boring. Incredibly, mind-bogglingly boring. And second, it had to do with rich people.

About a year ago, I attended an alumni event with a friend, and there they distributed complimentary copies of the novel. It was lying around one day and so I decided to re-read it for fun. This time around, I totally enjoyed it.

I could see why as a high schooler, I wouldn't be intrigued by or fully understand the book. I think when you're a middle-class to upper middle-class kid in the burbs, you have little idea what it means to be rich in the city, other than that you can wear nice clothes, drive a nice car, and live in a big house. But I think once you grow up and walk among the educated elite in a large city, you really meet people who are rich and who have formed their own ideas on the world and life by virtue of being rich.

There are various scenes in the book where the narrator, Nick, is hanging out with people who talk a lot without really saying anything. These people are rich (obviously) and well-educated. But the things they say are painfully vacuous and ignorant. Their lives are filled with nice homes and nice clothes, but are otherwise empty. I guess not much has changed since 1922.

I admit it is easy for people like me who are not rich to vilify the rich. I think F. Scott had a certain admiration and awe for the wealthy and their materialism; but at the same time a distaste for the vulgarity and ignorance. There was something romantic and yet very sad about the entire story. It really resonated with me.

In sum, I liked it.

I seeee you

2009-04-28T10:54:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, a curious thing happened.

I came out of my elevator in my building, and walked into the lobby area. The lobby connects directly to the foyer, which is enclosed in glass and connects to the street exit. Inside the glass foyer, the doorman sits at his desk with his security monitors and ushers visitors and tenants in and out of the building.

As I said, I was walking into the lobby area. The doorman was walking from another area of the lobby and walked toward the foyer. He spotted me also walking toward the foyer. He opened the glass door and entered the foyer. I was one foot behind him. Instead of holding open the door, or even giving it an extra push so it would remain ajar, he let the door shut behind him.

In my face.

Then I opened the door and looked at him over the security desk. But he wasn't there. No, he walked as far into the corner behind the security desk as he could, and cowered in the corner to avoid looking at me.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, my doorman was hiding from me.

Let's summarize: (1) He closed the door in my face, knowing I was right behind him, and (2) he hid from me behind the security desk. I couldn't understand why, when in the past, he had always been nice to me. Also, I had contributed to the Holiday Fund that administered bonuses to the staff during the holidays, so I know it wasn't because I was Scrooge McTenant. So why the Doorman Diss?

Then I figured it out: The man's in love with me. Now bear with me for a second.

Clearly, he freaked out when he saw me - donned in my t-shirt and sweatpants, my hair swept up in a loose bun, my face in its pimpled glory. What was he to do in the presence of such beauty? At that moment, when he saw me, he completely forgot who he was or what he was supposed to do. So he did what any insecure man in love would do: He ran. He decided to run inside the glass foyer and pretend he didn't see anything. But oh no, the hot pimply sweatpants girl was coming this way! What to do? Hide! So, despite the fact that the area behind the security desk was literally 10 square feet, he found the furthest corner of the security area, and cowered. "Hopefully, she didn't see me," he undoubtedly thought to himself.

Oh but I did, Mr. Doorman. I did. And now I know the truth.

Tale of a Second Grade Nothing

2009-04-06T11:02:00.005-05:00

The three of stood in line at the elementary school library: a black boy, Tyrone, a white girl, Stacy, and a yellow gal, me. Tyrone turned around toward me and began pulling his eyes sidways and diagonally, saying "ching chong ching chong!" He then burst into laughter at my chinkdom.

Stacy laughed a little. She then saw me standing there unaumused. "Hey, Yellow Gal," she said, "you should say to him, 'At least I'm not black!' "

"Really?" I said.

She said, "Come on! He made fun of you, and you're just gonna take it?!"

"Fine," I said.

Then Stacy tapped on Tyrone's shoulder. He turned around. "Yellow Gal has something to tell you."

"What?" he said glaring at me.

"At least I'm not black," I said.

He then exploded. "Why you gotta talk about my color? Did I talk about your color?"

"No, but you talked about my race--"

"DID I talk about your color?"

"No, but you talked about my race--"

"DID I TALK ABOUT --"

"Excuse me, is there a problem?" A librarian hovered over Tyrone, Stacy and me.

"No," we all said.

"Okay then," she said, and walked away, leaving us alone in silence.

This incident happened more than twenty years ago, and I still remember it pretty clearly. As I reflect upon this memory, I find it fascinating that it is so analogous - or perhaps applicable - to race relations today. "At least I'm not black"? Stacy was basically telling me to say "Yes, it sucks being a chink, but at least I'm not black." And I said it -- accepting my own inferiority but trying to assert some superiority over another race -- all under the lens of one blonde-haired blue-eyed white girl, who remained unscathed throughout this dialogue and division.

Perhaps a more sitcom ending could have been Tyrone responding to my racist statement "At least I'm not black," with "What's wrong with being black?" And I could have said "What's wrong with being Asian?" And then all of a sudden all three of us would get it, and then we'd throw our arms thrown over each other's shoulders, the frame would freeze on that image, and the studio audience would clap and the credits would roll over our faces with the theme music.

I guess life ain't like an 80s sitcom. But, I'd like to think that we're making headway. It is, after all, 2009, not 1986.

L as in label

2009-04-05T19:19:00.005-05:00

I just watched the pilot episode of The L Word, which seems to focus on the lives of several lesbian/bisexual professional women in L.A. It was only the pilot, and it was recommended to me by Netflix, due to my Sex & The City fanaticism and my favorable rating of the movie "Saving Face" (a film about a Chinese-American lesbian in NY). I wonder how accurately the show portrays 'real' lesbians. While I found S&tC entertaining, I don't think the majority of single professional women fall neatly into the characters and plot lines of Charlotte, Miranda, Carrie or Samantha. Part of me suspects that The L Word tries to sensationalize lesbians in L.A. the same way S&tC sensationalizes being single and straight in N.Y. Both shows seem to boast a cast of beautiful sexy smart women in a big city, just trying to be happy.

One of the story lines in The L Word focused on one girl, who was a transplant from the Midwest, and then 'discovers' that she is gay. I found it fascinating that a girl didn't know until she was in her twenties that she was gay. After some googling, I realized that there are a number of resources for people who discover later on in life that they're gay. I know it's nearly impossible for me to imagine because I've been straight my entire life. But I can't imagine what it's like to think you're attracted to one gender and only have sex with that one gender, and then later realize well into your twenties that you are attracted to another gender. I can't imagine how difficult it must be, and almost traumatic or shocking to one's identity.

Another interesting characteristic of the show was its lens: its focus on the fact that the characters are Lesbian. In a strange way though, I sort of felt like that by grouping them into this category, it sort of dehumanized them. Yes, they eat food and have sex and like good books and have friends. But the show seemed to reduce them to "Lesbian." When a woman is drinking a cocktail, it is a Lesbian drinking a cocktail. When a woman is reading a book, it is a Lesbian reading a book. I guess while watching it, I couldn't shake that label off.

The only parallels I can personally draw are from being an Asian American (not white) and a female (not male). Does my race or gender define my identity? Or do they only define it insofar as they limit or expand my life experiences? If I see a show with a woman drinking a cocktail, is it a Woman or just a person who happens to be female? I think different Asian American females including myself allow our race and gender define us on a wide and varying spectrum. Some Asian Americans no doubt find their race merely tangential to their identity, while others find it fundamental to their identity.

Anyhow, as a straight girl, I am curious about the gay experience in this day and age - no doubt analogous to the non-Asian in an Asian American history museum who is curious about a different culture. Maybe the show aims to humanize rather than categorize or sensationalize. And perhaps it aspires to enlighten 90% of the population that gays, as humans, are human and thus have the same desires - the need to connect, have good friends, have good sex, and find love.

As a side note, I asked the Boyfriend if he's heard of the show and if so, if he thought it was good. His review of the show: "Hot chicks having hot sex. Awesome show."

Yeah.

Seven and a half miles

2009-03-13T17:04:00.004-05:00

This is how much I walked today. No, this isn't a self-administered accolade or solicitation of props. After all, some people walk seven and a half miles to and from work everyday. Some people run thirty miles a day just for kicks. I by no means purport to deem myself the Bomb.

However, it is probably one of my biggest accomplishments today. Which goes to show how the rest of my day went. Or didn't go, rather.

There is a palpable Absence in my life, and I can't quite pinpoint what It is. I feel like there is something more to life than ... This. Sometimes, I wish I could be a mindless droid that finds simple contentment in going to work every day. Or follow my mom's suggestion and start going to church and making myself believe that Jesus is my Savior. Either of these alternatives would give me some purpose, and some source of peace and contentment. But I guess I know myself well enough that I can't well make myself believe or feel something I don't.

I like Monster.com's ad: "Your calling is calling." Does everyone have a calling? Or do only certain people have a calling, while the rest of us waddle in our uncertainty and attachments? Do we make our own calling? Gandhi was who he was not because it came to him, but because he made it happen. Perhaps everyone has a chance to be extraordinary, but only few of us recognize this fact, and even fewer act on it.

So the question, what is one's calling? Gandhi saw an Absence in the world, and decided to do something about it. Admittedly, not everyone will accomplish the same as Gandhi; but contributions are contributions. I wonder what mine is. Or will be.

Tell me something

2009-01-14T21:20:00.004-06:00

Even at my present age, an adult of many years, every so often, when I feel a thousand things press upon my chest like a single immovable weight, I just need to hear someone tell me, "It's going to be all right. Don't worry about it. It will all work out."

I just need to hear it. Even though I know there is no reason to believe that it will be all right and everything will work out, I just need to hear someone say it to me. I need to believe that it will work out, because if I don't, I feel like I will die.

Different people in my life have played the It's-All-Right Role in my life. Sometimes it is the Naysayer. Sometimes it is a girlfriend. Sometimes it is the boyfriend at the time. A lot of times though, it is my mother. She is the expert, because she is the Master of Bearing Burdens. I won't list all the things my mom has gone through in her 60 years of life, but let's just say it goes beyond the mere "I've had two papercuts in a row"-bullshit.

Now, if my mom - Master of Bearing Burdens - tells me it's all going to work out, then it's gotta work out. She has told me on numerous occasions that 99% of the things we worry about never end up happening. And even if it does happen, then it works out. So, she reasons, "don't worry." Because, after all, the act of worrying accomplishes absolutely nothing.

Suppressing a lifetime of over-analytical neurosis and a profession whose impulse is to anticipate everything that can possibly go wrong is no easy task. But I will strive nonetheless to be zen. To be chill. And I won't need anyone to tell me anything. Because I'll already know that it will all work out.

Hmm

2009-01-13T11:07:00.003-06:00

I've thought a lot about things in the past few weeks. And I think I'm going to do something crazy. Like really crazy.

Stop practicing law.

Start being happy. And do something completely unrelated to the J.D. I earned.

Instead of talking about it and blogging about it, I'm gonna do it.

I think.

Faith

2008-12-10T13:25:00.004-06:00

Few things are as humbling as being let go by one's firm; even a firm that was a source of abject misery and reduced one to tears on an almost nightly basis. Very humbling nonetheless. It is particularly humbling when one had no notice, and was let go during one of the worst economic crises one had ever seen in one's adult life. It is even more humbling when one is let go, not because of the economic downturn, but because of a lack of fit.

One feels a distinct vulnerability when such an event occurs. It is tangible; sharp and sweet, like a sugary blade cutting something deep inside. In these moments, one feels like a third person reading one's own story, and writing another person's blog; yet unlike a story or blog, it does not end the moment the book or web browser is closed. It lingers, and reverberates, until the last of its echoes is muted by the Next Big Event in One's Life.

What does one do until the Next Big Event? Dance for joy? Have a pity party? Dance for joy at one's pity party?

At any rate, things always have a way of working out. It's perhaps just a matter of time. And faith.

Further musing

2008-11-16T11:19:00.005-06:00

I suppose if every employed citizen were pressed, virtually all of us would say we would be doing something different if we were independently wealthy. Except for those people who are genuinely happy in their jobs.

Blah. All of these musings do nothing to mitigate the reality that I have to go to work today. Blah.

Sunday morning musings

2008-11-16T10:10:00.003-06:00

It's Sunday morning. I'm in bed as I type this. And my kitten is sleeping peacefully on my right thigh.

The only thing that mars this Sunday morning is the fact that I have to go to work today. I really don't want to, but I have to.

I think about those women who don't have to work for a living. Before, I was judgmental towards them. Unlike them, I aspired to be an educated woman, a career woman, an independent woman.

Now, I find myself coveting those women's lives. How magnificent would life be if I didn't have to work? If I were independently wealthy? I could just live my life and really enjoy my life. It wouldn't necessarily mean vegging every day (though that sounds pretty nice). I could write the Novel, i.e., the novel that every working stiff wished he/she but doesn't because of lack of inspiration, time and/or energy. I could travel to India or Egypt or New Zealand. I could work for a non-profit in the city, and feel like I'm doing something, rather than working for a firm that redistributes money between two parties. We're all going to die one day. And on that day, what will we have to show for it?

Man, I really don't want to go to work today.

A little vent

2008-10-09T15:47:00.005-05:00

I'm annoyed. Really, one of the most annoying things about life is when someone makes an offhand, unfair remark at you -- whether it be a flat-out insult or criticism -- and you have no comeback and you stand there like an idiot. Then, hours later, the logical, obvious comeback response comes to you. And you get mad because (1) that person got away with the remark, and (2) you had the perfect response.

Classic example:

Boss says to me: "You're a moron. All I did was ask you to add 1 + 1. Why is that so hard?

Classic Yellow Gal response: "Duh..."

What Yellow Gal should have said: "You didn't ask me to add 1 + 1. You asked me to multiply 935,049 by 934,435, square it, find the derivative of it, perform a logarithmic analysis, and make the final figure do a triple-axel ending with an inverted toe-touch."

Another "example":

Boss says: "You're a moron. It's taking you 10 days to finish this project. It took So-and-so 2 days."

Yellow Gal response: "Duh..."

What Yellow Gal should have said: "So-and-so analyzed a simple issue pertaining to one page of evidence. I have had to analyze 50,000 pages of evidence and analyze fifteen different issues. It's going to take a little bit longer than 2 days. Ass."

But no, I just stood there, thinking, "Duh..." and having that "Duh..." look on my face, and allowing my boss to think that I am a moron.

I know, I know -- If everyone got riled up over every unfair characterization in the history of mankind, then we'd never leave the house and still be banging rocks to make fire. I get it.

Still though. It's annoying.

The unknown

2008-09-18T12:36:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a red apple. It didn't remember coming to be, it just always remembered being a red apple. The red apple was in a narrow plastic canal, and moving steadily forward. Behind the red apple were other apples, green, golden and other reds. In front of the red apple were more apples. The apple looked to the side and saw parallel rows of apples, all moving in a single file down their respective canals, all moving forward in more or less the same pace.

"Where are we all going?" the red apple asked the apple in front of it.

"We're all just going," the apple in front replied.

"But where?"

"That direction," the front apple said as it nodded forward.

The red apple strained its stem to survey the room. And for what seemed for miles and miles were similarly constructed canals filled with a single row of apples, all moving in the same direction. Then the red apple looked over the edge of the canal.

"Don't look there!" the apple behind barked.

"Why not?" the red apple asked.

"It is the Unknown. Some apples have fallen down there."

"And what happened?" the red apple asked.

"We don't know. That's why it's called the Unknown."

"But we don't even know where this row is taking us."

"No, we know. We're moving in that direction. This is a canal for apples. We are apples. All the apples roll down this canal. This is our purpose."

"If that's not circular reasoning, I don't know what is," the red apple said. "I know we're rolling in that direction. But why?"

"You ask too many questions. Just roll with it."

The red apple complied and rolled with it. Rolled and rolled. The canal never meandered. The scenery never changed. It went on and on. Then one day, the red apple heard a juice-curdling scream.

The apples gasped and turned to the apple that emitted the scream. It was a green apple, and its stem was shivering and it had stopped its row from moving forward.

"I can't take it anymore," the green apple said. "I'm getting out."

Everyone gasped. "No no, that is not the way!"

"I'm getting out," the green apple repeated, and slowly started rocking itself over the edge of the canal.

"No you mustn't! You mustn't go into the Unknown!" the apples cried in unison. The red apple looked over the edge of the canal and could not see anything. There was no darkness, there was no light, there were no colors. It just seemed to be absolutely nothing, yet infinite at the same time.

The green apple rocked itself with enough momentum to slowly yet deliberately careen over the canal's edge. As it fell over the edge, it looked at the red apple, before plunging down into the Unknown.

The apples screamed in horror as the green apple fell.

The apple behind the red apple shook its stem. "Poor sucker."

"Does it die?" the red apple asked.

"We don't know."

"Then why the hell is everyone so horrified by this so-called 'Unknown'?" the red apple demanded.

"Because it's Unknown."

"Fug this," the red apple said. It too started rocking from side to side. "What are you doing?" the apple behind asked.

"I'm getting out too. Who wants to roll in this canal another eternity? I want to check out the Unknown."

"No!" the surrounding apples protested. The red apple rocked and rocked until it had enough momentum to teeter over the edge of its canal. A bolt of fear went through its core as it peered over the edge. This really was the Unknown. Who knows what would happen to the red apple once it fell? Would it regret this plunge? It did have a choice, stay or go. It didn't know.

"Fug it," it said, and went off the edge.

And the red apple fell. The screams of the other apples soon dissipated. Suddenly it felt warmer, and before the red apple could gather where in the heck it was, it landed on something.

"Oof," the red apple said. "I think I bruised myself."

"You sure did." The red apple gasped and looked around. "It's you."

The green apple nodded. "I knew you were next."

"But where are we?"

"I just got here, I have no idea," the green apple replied. "But this is the Unknown. And we're not dead."

"So where have all the other apples who went to the Unknown go?"

"Dunno," the green apple replied. "I guess we'll find out."

Special apologies to Mrs. F

2008-09-17T18:37:00.002-05:00

Last night, I dreamt I married Brett Favre.

Brett Favre, former quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.

Brett Favre, current quarterback of the New York Jets

Brett Favre, 38 years old, married, with kids.

What the heck?! Why Brett Favre? Why not Brad Pitt? Or Tom Brady for that matter?

The dream was very strange. I was preparing to get married. Things were behind schedule and everyone was rushing to get ready for the wedding. In my dream, I was not in love with Mr. Favre. And for that matter, it didn't seem that he was so much in love with me. We were somehow getting married though.

I remember the dress was strapless, a cream-colored off-white dress that had a stiff fabric for the top part, and a billowy bottom part. I was frantically looking for shoes in my house (not my condo, but my home where I grew up). I found a pair of silver shoes that were clearly my mom's -- strappy sandals, very 1990's style, and not so stylish. I started looking for these other silvery shoes that I had for another wedding.

Rush rush rush. There was something inside of me that felt like this was all too rushed, that I shouldn't be pressured into marrying a guy I wasn't in love with. Maybe I could call off the wedding and back out. But I just said, fug it, get married.

All throughout these events, I saw my ex-boyfriend lingering in the background. Walking through a room while I was getting ready. Hanging around the wedding party. Not talking to anyone really, and not talking to me.

The strangest thing of all of this -- if it could get any stranger -- was that my boyfriend (my PRESENT boyfriend) was nowhere to be seen. Completely absent. Literally nonexistent.

Then I woke up. What the F was that about? It was so realistic. And so eerie.

I don't have a crush on Favre. I know he's one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time, and he never struck me as one of those cocky, arrogant NFL players who mug for the camera or talk smack about teammates. Seems like a genuinely nice, down-to-earth guy who treats his momma well. I think he's attractive for a quarterback (but most quarterbacks are rather handsome, aren't they?). But I never swooned at the sight of him throwing the ball in the air.

Moreover, I like the dorky awkward types, not the rugged athletic types. What the heck? What does it mean?

Dreams are weird.

It's Sunday night

2008-09-14T23:33:00.003-05:00

And you know what that means. The same sentences repeat in my head again and again: "I so don't want to go to work. I so don't want to go to work. But I have to."

I won't discount the importance of having a job, much less a modest salary, in this economy, especially with my extravagant lifestyle of Starbucks coffees and kabobs from the Middle Eastern take-out stand.

I'm starting to think that being happy isn't dwelling on what you don't have, but on what you do have, and what you could have, if you work for it.

(That sounds about right, right?)

Samo Samo

2008-09-12T12:44:00.003-05:00

Again, I haven't blogged in a while. The reason for this is simple: Nothing is going on with me. Nothing good. Nothing (new) bad. Just the same ol' ish. Every. Day.

The same question lingers. I don't know what the next 'phase' of my life is. Nothing is really propelling me towards anything. Nothing is really inspiring me. Everyday is Groundhog's Day.

So when inspiration doesn't find you, you should find it, right? I've talked to a lot of lawyers in different fields and in different stages of their careers. I've talked to legal recruiters as well. Most, if not all, lawyers are unhappy.

What other options are there? Teacher? Consultant? Sketch artist? What?

The other day, I was talking to my galfriend about this existential yuppie funk. We wondered if other girls our age in similar stages of their careers were going through the same phase. We then figured, a lot of girls our age are married with kids. And, apparently, marriage and kids can take a lot of time away from ...well, complaining about how there's nothing going on.

As my mom likes to remind me, I'm 30 years old now, and it'll be another 5 years before my eggs start drying up and my chances of bearing a child with Down Syndrome doubles every year after 35. "You must get married," she insists, "you must have children. Otherwise, you will live and die alone."

Okay.

I do eventually want to get married and have kids. But just not now. I am so not ready. Hell, I still am a kid! I don't have time to vacuum my bedroom and I overboil my pasta sometimes--I can't even take care of myself, how could I ever have take care of a kid?!

Looking at all my peers, a number of whom are married with children, I can't help but suspect that maybe I'm ... behind the ball? I realize it's probably social convention that makes me feel this way. But I have to concede that, medically speaking, my chances of having a healthy child starts decreasing after the age of 35 and continues into my 40s. And, feeling lethargic at this age already, I know I won't have the energy to raise a young feisty toddler in my forties. (Mad props to the moms out there who do it -- they're so much more resilient than I am.)

So I'm hoping that I'll "figure it out when the time comes," and everything, in the next few years or so, will somehow fall into place. Right? Right.

It's funny. Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." I'm not making other plans. So maybe this is why I'm not feeling alive.

Man I need a hobby.

Incidentally

2008-07-29T20:49:00.003-05:00

Or COincidentally

My mom calls me not long after my previous post. She explains to me a bad situation her friend is in, and what, in my legal opinion, her friend should do. My legal gut told me several things, and as I'm on the phone with her, I start doing some quick research on the net and give her a preliminary answer.

Basically, I told my mom, her friend should be okay.

After talking to her for about half an hour, she said "Thank you. I'll tell my friend."

Then she added, "After your dad passed away, I feel so much more secure knowing that you're a lawyer."

"Oh," I said, not really knowing how to respond.

"I have taken on some of dad's financial matters after he passed away," she said, "and these guys think they can pull one on me because they think I'm an unsophisticated, immigrant, Yellow widow. But when I tell them my daughter is a lawyer, they back off."

I half-laughed. "Seriously? Just like that?"

"I don't just say it in the beginning. But when I suspect they're up to something, I tell them, 'I know what you're trying to do, and I know that's not right. I know this, because my daughter is a lawyer.' Then they look at me and say, 'Your daughter is a l-l-lll-lawyer??' and I say 'Yes.' Then they back off."

"How funny."

She continued, "So I am grateful that you are a lawyer. And I'm proud of you."

"Oh," I said, again not really knowing how to respond.

So in that brief moment -- when my mom's friend was in a fix and I figured out a quick legal answer to her problem; and my mother dropped the L-bomb on my dad's former business associates and they stopped trying to pull a fast one on her -- I did feel a spark of something. Purpose? Usefulness? A feeling that I'm helping someone deserving?

I don't know. It was small...but it was something.

Good times

2008-07-29T13:35:00.002-05:00

Think of the starving people.

In Africa.

In Asia.

In America.

There are lots of starving people. There is a lot of suffering in this world. Yet for some reason, this mantra that I am told to repeat to myself to make myself a more grateful, happier person ... doesn't quite work.

I've been in a funk for a long time. And I can't quite pinpoint why. I have a respectable job. A nice condo. A great boyfriend. And great friends. So I should be happy. I should be happy.

But I feel incredibly unmotivated. And it's not something that goes away or dissipates. I mean, sure, when I buy a new dress or see a funny movie, I'm temporarily perked up. But in the end, I end up feeling so blase. This is beginning to affect specific aspects of my life. Such as work.

I thought maybe it was the job, and that was the source of my ennui, and so I should just change it. But a recent talk with my supervisor showed me otherwise.

My supervisor approached me about a recent project I did for him, and his vast disappointment in its quality. "I know you're not retarded. I know you're bright. So why are you giving me work that looks like it's been drafted by a retard?"

I didn't have an answer.

He continued, "I get the feeling that you just don't care about the cases. You aren't vested in the things we do here. And I thought when we hired you, you wanted to do the cases we do. But when I see your work product, it seems like you have no interest, no concern for the case, and thus you don't put in the effort. What the f?"

What the f indeed. Amidst his litany of complaints about my work and my attitude and my undeserved salary, there was a grain of truth: I didn't really care. And that's why I didn't do my best. And that's why the work product was less than what I could have done. I know I am capable of more. But I just don't feel like exerting the effort towards something I don't care about.

It's like this: There is a tree. And the highest apple on this tree is the sweetest, juiciest, largest apple. But the closer apple, while not as sweet, juicy or large, is edible and fine. At this juncture in my life, I'm content with the edible, fine apple. I know I can get the highest apple on the tree. But why bother when I'm okay with the closer apple?

I confess this is not the best work ethic, certainly not the work ethic of my parents.

There is a certain guilt in my complacency, other than any guilt resulting from the starving people on this planet. As I've said before, I know that my immigrant parents suffered a lot to survive in this country. They did it all so my brother and I could have all the opportunities this country affords. I went to college, I went to law school and I have a solid job. There is that voice inside of me that tells me I am squandering their efforts and all of this opportunity they created for me, because of my complacency.

I know I can be more than what I am. But there is no driving force in my life that propels me towards that.

I am not, and never will be, one of those A-type gunners. The ones who have to be #1. The ones who sit at the front of every class and raise their hand for every question and read ahead so they can be the best. The BEST.

The idea of being a gunner is repellent to me.

What other motivators are there? Power? No interest. Money? I already know that's not the answer to happiness. So what is it?

Right now, it feels like the answer is "nothing." Absolutely nothing. That's why getting out of bed every morning feels like pulling off a band aid every time. That's why I occasionally do subpar work. I feel constantly disconnected from everything in my life, and it's filled with temporary pleasures like hanging with the boyf or friends. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking down the street and it's not me that's walking, but someone else.

I just want something, someone, to pinpoint what the f is going on. I want a purpose, a goal, SOMETHING, that will awaken me from this funk-adelic slumber from my life, so I don't waste all my formative years feeling so blase and so useless.

This all sounds pretty depressing. But I'm not depressed (at least I don't think so). I think I'm just feeling ... disconnected. From life.

Spare change

2008-07-06T12:42:00.003-05:00

A lot of people fear change. I think the biggest thing people fear about change is the pessimistic notion that things could always be worse.

The Pessimist reasons: What if you dump your sig other in hopes of finding someone better, and you don't? What if you end up with someone worse? Or you die alone with nothing but regret? What if you changed your job? Your career? The city you live in? The friends you have? You could always end up somewhere more miserable or with people who are more unpleasant.

There is some dysfunctional comfort in living in the familiar, even if it is replete with unhappiness. We keep the toxic friends we have because at least when they flake out on us or disappoint us, it's expected, it's familiar. We stay with our boyfriends or jobs because, while they do have their flaws, they're known flaws, flaws that we've been able to deal with. And, we reason, it's easier to deal with the known than the unknown.

It's this dysfunctional thinking -- this fear, I should say -- that paralyzes us from making a change. And when I say "us" I mean me. The Pessimist's reason does resonate: It could always be worse.

I wonder what usually is the precise moment that crystallizes for us the need for change. Usually, and unfortunately, it's something violent or traumatic. For example, a woman realizes she needs to leave her husband after he hit her. Or an employee realizes he needs to leave after his boss calls him a chink. Does it always have to come to that breaking point? How can we come to that epiphany of change sooner?

It's difficult because the flip side says life is always hard, no job/significant other/friend is perfect, and life is about compromise. If you're searching for something or someone perfect, you'll always be searching. How unhappy does one have to quantitatively be before she decides to change?

I guess everyone has a different standard. In cultures that condone wife-beating, it probably takes an attempted murder to motivate a woman to leave her husband. Or, as in my case, when someone is raised by parents who suffered a lot to just put food on the table and a roof over their heads, it probably takes a horridly abusive work environment to motivate a gal to leave her cushy job.

I suppose the fact that one thinks about it a lot is an answer in itself. And perhaps that's my answer.

A nice thing about change, to which the Pessimist has no retort, is that you're in control. You decide what you want, and the actions you need to take to get there. It is exciting and, most importantly, liberating. And who knows. With some spare change, you may end up with something better. And be happier.

Girls talk.

2008-07-03T14:08:00.002-05:00

I think one thing that escapes a great number of men is the fact that girls talk. Guys think that they'll never be discovered, yet they fail to fathom the depth and extent of a girl's ability to gossip.

I have two illustrations:

1. I have two sets of girlfriends. They are connected through me. Both sets of girlfriends were recently introduced to a (single) guy. Not too surprisingly, he started "getting to know" two different girls -- one from each of my sets of girlfriends. Let's call one girl from one set of girlfriends "Girl A", and the other girl from the other set of girlfriends, "Girl B." He's been chatting and hanging out with both Girl A and Girl B, while keeping it a secret from the other girl. I was particularly annoyed by this, because (1) he never told me about it and I heard about it through mutual friends, and (2) dating two girls from connected circles of friends can jeopardize the circles of friends.

Then one day, he made plans with Girl A on Saturday. They had been planning this for a few weeks now. When Girl A contacted him on Thursday to figure out time/place, he replied tersely, "Oh, sorry, I made other plans. Sorry." Just like that. Canceled on her without any real explanation.

Then I'm talking to Girl B, and she's telling me about her upcoming weekend. Then she happens to mention that she and the guy are going out on Saturday.

What a moron. Did he really think he could get away with canceling on Girl A and going out with Girl B without anyone finding out? I was told not to tell Girl B about his canceling on Girl A (Girl A was pretty embarrassed by the truth -- who wouldn't?). But I know. And Girl A knows. And another friend knows.

Moron.

2. There is a guy friend that I know. While I think he can be a fun guy to hang out with, I would never date him. I also know he would never date me. Still though, he does occasionally semi-flirt with me. One particular time, he jokingly "bragged" about his "size" and how "big" he was.

I had to laugh. LITTLE DID HE KNOW that TWO DIFFERENT GIRLS -- who are complete strangers to each other but both friends with me -- both told me that he was small. Tiny. (Okay I admit it's pretty mean to blog about this, and even if he or either of the girls found and read this entry, they wouldn't have any idea I was blogging about them.) It took every ounce of self-restraint to hold back my laughter and resist saying "That's not what I heard from ___ and ___, Millimeter-Man."

See? I'm so mature. So restrained and mature.

So guys, be careful. Girls talk. A lot.

Alas

2008-07-03T13:58:00.003-05:00

It's another sunny day, and I wish I could feel content. If only there were a button I could push, tiny liquid I could inject, that could somehow magically alter my perception to that of perpetual optimism...I'd go for it.

Though I do remember reading an article a while ago about how people take anti-depressants just to "cheer up" when they're feeling bummed. They're not even depressed! They just use it recreationally! And doctors prescribe it for this use! I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, given that so many professionals are functioning alcoholics and/or drug-users.

Ah, the things we do to escape.

So it's been a while.

2008-07-02T14:17:00.003-05:00

I've been a bad blogger. i.e., a non-blogger. And it's not that stuff isn't going on. Stuff is going on. I just ... didn't feel inspired to blog about it. Because it was the same shit, different day-type of deal.

I think I've whined, on more than one occasion, about my job as an attorney. And in the last few months or so, I've wondered if maybe this is the right career for me. I handle stress very poorly. If something has screwed up, or is in jeopardy of being screwed up, or may or may not be screwed up, I experience what I believe to be a panic-attack. A palpable pit forms in my stomach and I can't breathe or think normally because the world's about to end. (It never does. Not yet anyways.)

Not to mention the chewing out by my superiors. I can understand their predicament--they hire a peon to make their lives easier and instead of easing their burdens, this peon makes mistakes, asks questions, and does things so slowly. It'd be frustrating. And so when something goes awry or not exactly the way they'd do it, a head is bitten off, usually mine.

Which brings me to several questions:

Am I cut out to be a lawyer? Am I just too goddamn weak, sensitive, anxious to be in this high-intensity profession?

Or is it the firm? My co-workers? Should I just change firms?

Or is it the practice area? Should I change areas?

Or is it the law in general?

Then I wonder, is anyone ever really happy in their job? Or is some agony an indispensable aspect of having a career? Am I being a quitter because I want to leave a job that makes me miserable? Shouldn't I be facing and overcoming adversity, rather than running away from it? Then again, doesn't everyone have a right to be happy? Isn't life too short to spend several years proving your worth to some judgmental voice in your head that says 'no pain, no gain'?

Then I wonder, am I being too picky? There are thousands of people out there who are unemployed, who would give anything to have the job I have, let alone any job. So am I being one of those self-entitled brats who had delusions about what it meant to be a yuppie? As my mom likes to remind me, there are people who have survived concentration camps and child molestation. I don't have it so rough, she says. And truth be told, the job's not all bad, I like the substance of the work that I do, the intellectual exercise of the law -- just not the stress and ego-smashing that accompanies it.

I've contemplated seeing a career counselor about this. Or maybe reading a good career book. I'm not really sure. The only things I know are that (1) I want to be happy, and (2) I'm not happy.

One game of poker

2008-04-21T10:45:00.003-05:00

Ever since I was a child, I knew that there was a teeny tiny part of me that had a certain disposition that one of my uncles had. I don't really see it in any of my other relatives except him. It's something I don't admire at all, in fact, it's something I've grown to dislike.

It's a competitive side.

I don't know if it's a Yellow thing or just a human thing. From what I can remember, my uncle had a very particular attitude. He had to be number one. He had to be better than everyone and outperform everyone (including my dad, his brother). He liked to call my dad once in a while and taunt my dad with the grades his sons got over me or my brother, or brag about the schools his sons got into -- all for the sole purpose of rubbing it in. And any time he (or either of his sons) fell short of number one, he would get enraged. Almost violently enraged.

I really didn't like that about him.

Yet as I grew up, I realized a tiny part of him was in me. During certain games or certain events, I would sometimes lose. And it would hit a nerve. And then I'd get angry. Really angry. Really pissy and angry. I typified the sore sore loser. And then I'd want to get back at my opponent again. And if/when that opponent beat me again, I'd have a temper tantrum and be sulky for the next day or two.

It just didn't seem like a healthy way to be. So over the years, I've learned to quell that competitive tick. I managed to tuck this part of me away in the farthest part of the lowest drawer of a locked cabinet that is in the back of my closet behind the skeletons. So when I lose a game or even get my ass whooped, I'd laugh it off and say "good game, good game." I'd be a good sport. Once in a while, a small thing will set it off. But for the most part, I have it under lock and key and in control.

Until last night.

Yesterday the boyf and I had a nice little bbq in his friends' backyard. We had chips and picante salsa, burgers, hot dogs, and grilled chicken. We drank wine and beer and chatted about the weather, politics, the news, television, anything. It was fun.

Then one of the guys said "Okay I'm setting up the poker table! Who's in?" A few guys raised their beers. I looked at the boyf who had his "It's on"-game face.

I remembered how, on our way to the bbq, the boyf told me they might play poker. It was at that point I decided to tell him about my Competitive Side. I assured him I'm usually laid back about stuff. But every once in a while, something will hit a nerve and I'll revert into an unreasonably pissy and angry sore loser. "At that point," I warned him, "just lay off. Don't egg it on. Because I get seriously pissed. Seriously."

"Oh okay," he said as he pulled into the driveway.

Back to the present -- we're sitting at our poker game. Each of us has a stack of chips in front of us representing $20. And we start playing. I get shitty cards all night. A 2 of hearts and a 4 of clubs. A 3 of diamonds and a 7 of spades. I'm slightly annoyed but whatevs. It's just a game. My chips dwindle away from the blinds. I'm pretty conservative and I won't bluff unless I feel like I have a modest hand. Which I don't.

So one game, when I was dealt two queens, I felt like it was my time to win. I decided to wait until later in the game to bet seriously, thinking I had it. Then I get beaten by a flush. When I showed my cards, everyone moaned. "You should have gone all in in the beginning." The guy who won (my boyf's Best Bud incidentally) remarks to me, "Yeah, it really doesn't make sense for you to bet like that when you had pocket queens," as he's taking away my chips and adding them to his mountain of chips. "You're just going to lose," he added with a smile and a shrug.

The cabinet in the back of the closet began to rumble. But I keep it shut.

"Wow Yellow Gal, your chips look really low! You've lost a lot, huh?" a passerby said.

I remained silent. The boyf was next to me, being ever so observant, fully warned, and obedient, remained silent.

In the next several hands, my chips continue to dwindle from the blinds. Then I am dealt a king and an ace. I go all in. Two other guys call and raise. The dealer then deals three cards on the table: an ace, a king, and a jack. The betting begins. Best Bud ends up with ( you guessed it) a queen and a ten. He again, along with several onlookers, begins to give me unsolicited advice about my poker playing, my betting strategy (or lack thereof) and how I should have predicted X, Y and Z and my failure to do so resulted in losing all my chips.

This was my first time playing poker. So instead of gladly accepting all of this wonderful advice, I said, "Wow, most of what you said is over my head, but thanks anyway."

I watched in silence as my boyf, his Best Bud, and another gentleman played on. Best Bud's girlfriend remarked, "Wow, you guys analyze the game so much." Best Bud remarked, "Well, it's precisely because we analyze the game that we're the only ones here playing with everyone else's money." The girlfriend laughed and slapped his shoulder. "That was so mean!"

"What," he said, looking around the table, "it's true isn't it? Am I wrong?"

I suddenly remembered all those old cheesy western films where in some dusty saloon in the wild west, a couple cowboys are in a game of poker, when one cowboy reveals his hand of four aces and gleefully pockets the cash and change into his sack. The loser then gets bent out of shape and flips over the table and aims his gun at the winner's forehead. It seemed like such an overreaction at the time. Who gets that pissed over a game of poker?

The answer was me. I was stunned by Best Bud's cocky comment. And livid. And as he mused over his mountain of earnings, the tiny piece inside of me that was tucked inside the bottom drawer of the locked cabinet had escaped by now and was rampaging around the closet, but I kept the closet door firmly shut and my face stoic.

We decided to cash in our earnings at a certain point and call it a night. My boyf managed to win back my earnings plus his, so together, we broke even. Still, as we walked to my boyf's car, I said, "Can you beat Best Bud next time and take away all of his money?"

Boyf replied, "Hmm, he pissed you off, didn't he?"

"Uh huh," I said as I got into his car.

On the way home, I stewed in silence, feeling the rage pour up from my stomach, through my chest, into my throat and, irritatingly, up to my eyes.

Sniffle.

"Aw Yellow Gal," the boyf said. "Is this what you warned me about?"

"DON'T worry. I warned you, this is my pissy side. It'll go away."

The boyf said, "Okay, we shouldn't play poker anymore."

"No," I said. I knew it was my first time playing with real money, and that the boyf's friends probably have been playing it for years and years, but a part of me, the competitive side, wanted to learn the game, master it, and stick it to Best Bud and laugh at him as I buy myself a pair of shoes with the money he donated to me.

So PETTY, I yelled at myself, You're letting the terrorists win. You're letting Best Bud under your skin. You're letting him get the best of you.

Then the thing that was bursting out of the closet said, He will so rue the day he lectured you on poker.

So yes, the pissy DNA strand that I share with my uncle is alive and kicking. I'm not sure whether I should relent to it and let it drive me to kick the ass of and humiliate Best Bud. Or get over it and take the high road.

Needless to say, I'm still pissed!

Conversations with an Asian Parent

2008-04-15T17:06:00.002-05:00

Conversation 1:

Asian kid: "Look I got an A on my test!"

Asian parent: "Did you get a 100%?"

Asian kid: "No...a 97%."

Asian parent: "What did you get wrong?"

Asian kid: "A couple questions on--"

Asian parent: "I thought you said you studied."

Asian kid: "I did!"

Asian parent: "If you studied, you would have gotten a 100%. You didn't. You didn't study hard enough."

Asian kid: "I did study hard..."

Asian parent: "How many other people got A's?"

Asian kid: "I don't know..."

Asian parent: "So maybe everyone got a 100% and you got a 97%?"

Asian kid: "I don't know..."

Asian parent: " 'I don't know'? 'I don't know' is why you got 97%, not 100%. Study more next time."
______________________________

Conversation 2:

Asian kid: "Hey I learned Rachmanonov's Piano Concerto No. 3!"

Asian parent: "How old are you? 12 now? Jenny Lee learned that when she was 10."

Asian kid: "It's really hard..."

Asian kid: "Well, if you were smarter or worked harder, you would have learned it before Jenny Lee. You must either be dumber or lazier. Study more next time."

______________________________

Conversation 3:

Asian kid: "Hey I got into Harvard!"

Asian parent: "And?"

Asian kid: "And...I got in! I'm so excited!"

Asian parent: "No scholarship?"

Asian kid: "No..."

Asian parent: "Hm, you didn't study enough."

Asian kid: "But...it's...Harvard."

Asian parent: "If you studied harder, you would have gotten scholarship."

Asian kid: "I was valedictorian of my class--"

Asian parent: "Study more next time."
______________________________

Some stereotypes have a ring of truth to them.

How about a non-reunion

2008-03-28T16:12:00.003-05:00

I recently saw an ad from Reunion.com. Its slogan was: "Find Everyone from Your Past."

My gut reaction was: "Let's not."

I admit, I'm not a perfect person. And I haven't always made the best decisions, whether it comes to money, work, friends, or guys.

Okay what I'm really saying in a very roundabout way is that I've done some bad things in my life to other people, things I'm not proud of, things that I haven't really forgiven myself for. Once in a while, when my self-imposed amnesia buckles, I remember some of the individuals I haven't been the nicest to, and I feel a sense of dread in my stomach. I'm not sure if it's the guilt. Or the feeling of knowing that someone out there dislikes me, if not hates me.

Not that I flatter myself. I mean, people have dissed me, and I don't spend every waking second ruing the day I met them. But if I bumped into some of those people, some of those old feelings would certainly resurface, and I wouldn't exactly be very receptive to them.

The point of all this is that, in a month, I -- along with some friends and the Boyf -- will be visiting one of the cities I used to live in several years ago to attend an event.

My Boyf is not privy to the events of my past, specifically, the things I've done wrong. So it makes me slightly uncomfortable to know that I will be visiting this city with my Boyf, and run the risk of bumping into people who wouldn't exactly be receptive to me.

The Naysayer says I'm being paranoid. And yes, I am. But I guess it goes beyond just literally bumping into them. I guess one could say that I'm a bit haunted by my past. That I still haven't reconciled myself with my mistakes. I kind of just hope that after X years go by, the memories will be so distant that they'll all seem fuzzy, trivial, and trifling, relegated to the memories of playground fights or forgotten homework assignments.

Anyway, a reunion is the exact opposite of what I want on little my trip. I don't want to find anyone from my past. In fact, I would much prefer that I lose them. And my memories of them.

Human contact = Good

2008-03-05T17:05:00.002-06:00

I just realized that, for over 36 hours, I haven't had any human contact with anyone outside of work or the Subway sandwich store. I was supposed to have lunch with a friend today, but she had to reschedule. I've been working late every night so I haven't been able to see friends or the boyf after work.

The reason I realized this suddenly was that I felt starkly disconnected. And irritable. And every comment or remark from work people just grated on my nerves a little more than it should.

How do the hermits do it?

While my furry pet at home is fully huggable and loveable, she still isn't a human I can connect with and banter with. (At least not yet).

So I called the boyf and made a "human-contact-call" -- versus a "booty call" -- just so I can talk to someone for twenty minutes who is not my boss or the Subway sandwich-maker-guy.

Like I said, how do the hermits do it?!

Mantras

2008-03-04T20:30:00.004-06:00

Focus on the things that matter.

Focus on the people who matter.

Do not focus on the things that do not matter.

Do not focus on the people who do not matter.

The rude receptionist who copped an attitude at you for no good reason, the long line at Walgreen's, the boss who likes to make snide remarks at you just to put you down, and the luke-warm coffee you just purchased all fall under the category of things and people who do not matter.

Your best friend who will be there no matter what happens, your cuddly face-licking dog, your favorite novel, and your unfailing mom all fall under the category of things and people who do matter.

These are the mantas I tell myself. These are the mantras I remind myself. Otherwise I risk forgetting what's important and dwelling instead on the things that aren't.

HRC

2008-03-04T18:38:00.007-06:00

This picture of Hillary Rodham Clinton on CNN.com kind of looks like my mom:

Obviously, the Caucasian version of my mom. It's kind of weird. I mean they have a similar facial structure, the same hairstyle and that same older-lady-laughing expression when they're laughing. They're also about the same age.

It almost makes me feel a bit more sympathetic towards her given that everyone is bashing her nowadays.

Weird!

I've got three words

2008-03-03T17:02:00.009-06:00

And it's an alliteration: Bitter Blue Balls.

Read below post I found on craigslist.

"What Happened to All the Nice Guys?"

Date: 2007-11-19, 3:52AM PST

I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

If you were five years younger.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.

Sincerely,

A Recovering Nice Guy

Seriously? Okay, it's definitely sad when you like someone and someone doesn't like you back. Hello -- story of my life. It's a painful lesson we begin learning at age 12 and have repeatedly reinforced until the day we get hitched or die, which ever comes sooner. But seriously, this dude needs to get over it. His rant is dripping with bitterness and resentment, and instead of empowering him, his "I told you so"-rant makes him sound even more pathetic and insecure.

And seriously, a girl can't be friends with a guy and have emotional intimacy with him unless she "reciprocat[es], in kind, with physical intimacy"? What the f kind of bullshit is that? That basically translates to "You can't be friends with me unless you put out."

And, um, I find it hard to believe that a girl who had zero romantic interest in the guy but liked to shop and watch movies with him actually "laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion." Quite frankly, a girl wouldn't care to deign that much effort into "laughing" and "resenting" a guy she has zero interest in. But hey, if that's what this dude needs to tell himself to fuel his rage and get through day, then to each his own.

All I'm saying is, the dude needs to get a grip. At least on something other than what he evidently grips every Friday and Saturday night alone in his studio apartment.

. . .

P.S. - I like nice guys. I'm dating one. As people can read in my past posts, I've been dicked over by a number of lame-ass, socially retarded assholes. So I'm glad to be in a relationship with a guy who calls me regularly, opens the door for me, buys me roses, etc.

This post is not an indictment of nice guys. It is an indictment of guys with bitter blue balls.

I am an idiot.

2008-02-20T12:15:00.007-06:00

I found this article entitled, How Much Will Your Baby Be Like You? The first page of the article discussed how your baby could inherit you or your spouse's physical traits (like a cleft chin) or personality traits (like a hot temper). Once I read the first page, I emailed it to my co-worker who just had a baby girl a month ago and is on maternity leave now. I called it a "cute article" and told her how it reminded me of her and her hubby.

Once I emailed it, I clicked on to read the second page, where it talked about inherited health problems. My heart dropped. I remember vividly how my co-worker's husband had just overcome an extensive battle with lung cancer. He almost died from the chemotherapy.

So, basically, by sending the article to her and saying it reminded me of her and her husband, I was telling her that her baby girl was going to get cancer. I am such an IDIOT.

No mercy

2008-02-18T18:17:00.004-06:00

There was a game that I used to play when I was a child. It was called "Mercy." The rules were simple: one individual faced her opponent, and interlaced both her left and right hands with the other individual's right and left hands, respectively. Then someone said "Start!" Immediately, the two individuals gripped, twisted, and bent the other's fingers, wrists and/or hand back until one individual was in so much pain and agony that she had no choice but to yell "Mercy!" At that moment, the victor would release his victim's hands.

I never won this game.

Maybe it was because I always played boys or older girls. Or maybe it was because I was a weakling. Okay it probably was because I was a weakling. But the case remained: I never won.

So I can't help but liken the game to life. Not in terms of winning or losing. But being able to say "Mercy!" when the moment arises. When it crystallizes in your mind that you can't win, you won't win, and the pain is so unbearable that you have no choice but to say mercy.

I think the only life lesson you can glean from the game is that there will sometimes be a moment when you know you have to walk away. Whether it be with a job, a relationship, or a Jehovah's witness. Hope springs eternal, and I think some people hope that the neighborhood bully's hands will somehow buckle via divine intervention and the 5'2 pipsqueak will win. In the history of humankind, it has happened -- examples include David v. Goliath, New York Giants v. New England Patriots.

But maybe there's a reason that such events are historical.

Another thing is that, sometimes even when you realize that Mercy moment, you don't get it--mercy. It's not as simple as a kid releasing his grip on your hands. Sometimes the situation won't let go. It's something you can't just walk away from. Or it still hurts even after you walk away. Life is interesting like that.

Anyway, I have a habit of waiting until things get really really bad before I say "Mercy." It's only until I'm buckled-over in pain that I realize it might be time to throw in the towel. And until then, I wait and hope that things will get better. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Either way, life has a random habit of showing people no mercy.

Kitt-schy

2008-02-07T18:05:00.001-06:00

I have a calendar in my office. It functions perfectly as a calendar. It tells the onlooker the date, the day of the week, the month, and the year. It is normal in every respect except one: It has cats on it. Not just cats, but a lot of cats.

I love furry animals, both cats and dogs. And the boyf got me a silly cat calendar at my request. Little did I know that this particular cat calendar is INSANE.

A normal cat calendar would probably have one large photograph for every month with a cat lying in repose on a fence or in a basket or sniffing a daffodil. Not so in my case. My cat calendar has a thousand pictures for every month. Okay, in actuality, one photograph for every date of every month. Each date has a "zany" photograph with an even "zanier" caption. There are cats wearing boas, cats inside fish bowls, cats wearing scarves, cats wearing ear muffs, cats wearing football helmets, cats wearing other cats. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not. The captions are even worse.

Beneath a picture of a cat inside a hamster gym: "Don't be afraid, Jellybean. It's a hamster spa and I'm going to give you a massage."

Was that even a joke?

Beneath a photograph of a cat next to a Scrabble board: "Cheated at Scrabble with neighbor's pug."

I don't get it.

This calendar is so painfully bad and kitschy, it's funny. Except I always get the distinct feeling that when people walk into my office, they expect to find a 45-year-old woman with a peroxide-bleached-mullet, a pink and yellow sweater vest, and canvass shoes from Wal-Mart.

Then I think about the cats. Did any of these cats have any idea that they would be memorialized in a horribly tacky cat calendar? Did that one cat sitting next to the Scrabble board have an inkling that its decision to sit on a chair that happened to be next to a piece of cardboard would forever link it to a word game and an imaginary canine? I wonder where that cat is right now, and if it has any idea what its owner did to it, or if it will ever know.

At any rate, I feel like it's my duty to keep this calendar posted on my wall. A weaker person would put the calendar down and burn it. But I'll keep it posted and be forever tortured by earmuff-wearing cats.

10.6 months to go.

Drinking some haterade

2008-02-07T17:31:00.000-06:00

I know someone who has a blog. I won't say who she is, as her blog is not anonymous. She posted her full name, first and last, her occupation, and even where she works. She also posted her picture.

I find this amusing. I know exactly what she looks like and so I find it entertaining that she selectively chooses photographs of her that wildly flatter her features, almost to the point of making her look attractive. The woman is not attractive. The best word to describe her is "hag."

OKOKOK, I realize that this observation of mine is slightly petty. I mean, who the f cares what picture you post of yourself on your blog? If you look like a troll and decide to take the time and effort to airbrush your photograph to mimic the beauty of Jessica Alba, that's your prerogative.

Fair enough. I'm just saying that I find it amusing that a number of guys -- guys who don't know what she looks like in person, mind you -- post comments on how beautiful she is. Seriously folks, she is a hag. (Can the reader tell that I don't like this woman at all?) And so it cracks me up that she posts still photos of herself where she is literally modeling in front of cityscapes or lilies. I wonder if she set up a tripod to photograph herself, if she has Photoshop, or if she had a friend doctor her photos. Whatever the special effects may be, I admit she did an amazing job of turning "hag" into "hot."

Another thing I will admit is that I'm being a hypocrite. I personally will not post any photo on myspace, facebook, or whatevs where I look fat, old and/or otherwise ugly. I will only post photos where I am smiling at the right angle and my arm fat is minimalized by the position of my arm. And what normal human being wouldn't pick photos of herself looking her most stunning?

I suppose it rubs me the wrong way how orchestrated all of her photo shoots are and how much of a discrepancy there is between the real her and the photographed her. Why should this bother me? I don't know, it has absolutely no bearing on my life.

Just remember this, folks: beauty is in the eye of the Photoshop airbrusher.

Impurrfect

2008-01-21T17:47:00.000-06:00

It must be nice to be a house cat.

Here's a typical day. You wake up. At 1:30 pm. You yawn, stretch and walk over to the bowl of food your servant has already prepared for you. Then you drink from the bowl of water that has also been prepared for you. Then you go back to sleep.

If you need to pee or take a dump, you do it in a sandbox, and your servant cleans it all up for you.

When you want attention, you walk up to your servant, and she will pet you, cuddle you, lift you and utter nonsensical words to you, usually in a falsetto voice. All you need to do is purr.

If you poop on the rug or vomit on the sofa, it's okay. After all, you're just a cat. No worries, your servant will clean up your mess for you.

Like I said, it's a nice life.

The only trade off is, you're probably neutered or spayed. And that means you're pretty much guaranteed to die a virgin. And for this reason, I'm not too bummed over my station in life as a human.

At least that's what I try to tell myself.

Earphoria

2008-01-16T15:53:00.000-06:00

There is something to be said about the feeling you get when you're crossing a busy street downtown, surrounded by bundled-up strangers and looming skyscrapers, and hearing through your iPod the voice of Frank Sinatra wax poetic about the very city you're meandering through. The song is the perfect backdrop, the ultimate soundtrack, to the city. Your naturally quick pace slackens as your eyes drift upwards towards the glass and stone buildings that stretch and arch towards the sky, a sky that looks like it could be scraped, a sky that signifies endless possibilities; and you almost begin to believe that the city, This City, really does have all the hope and promise the song foretells.

Boredom

2008-01-11T10:54:00.000-06:00

Once, a girl, Y, was having dinner three individuals. The three were quantum physicists, while Y was the sole lawyer.

The three quantum physicists went on and on about subatomic particles and vectors. During the two-hour long discussion, Y had perfected the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn. After years of enduring boring lectures in college and law school, listening to her bosses wax eloquent on why her brief sucked and staying conscious during very bad dates, Y was an expert Closed-Mouth Yawner. Little did she know that all those years of practice were preparation for this exact type of situation.

Y couldn't escape. They were seated at a table with unfinished meals before them. Still though, halfway through the meal, Y was half-tempted to excuse her self and grab a cab outside the restaurant. But she didn't. Instead, she remained silent, took sips of her lemon water, and close-mouthed-yawned. A lot.

Finally one of the quantum physicists turned to Y. "Does this stuff completely bore you? Do you have absolutely no interest in our topics at ALL?"

Y was stunned. Exposed. Were quantum physicists not only mind-bogglingly smart, but also psychic?! Instead of answering with a resounding and honest "YES," Y replied, "Oh, it's just that most of this is over my head, ha ha."

The other three awkwardly laughed, and then resumed their conversation on vectors.

Apparently, Y was also not only an expert in the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn, but also the art of Evading Answers and Tactful yet Self-Deprecating Bull Shitting.

Conflict resolution 101

2008-01-11T10:09:00.000-06:00

A and B are dating. A and B are usually chatty and chipper when together.

One day, A was silent and morose. B tried to be chatty and chipper. A was unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

Silence. Finally, A responded, "Yes. Sort of."

B replied, "What is it?"

A said, "It kind of bothered me when you did X."

B said, "Oh, doh. I didn't realize that. Sorry, I won't do it again."

A replied, "It's okay. Thanks for listening."

A and B then resumed being chatty and chipper again. Then a couple weeks later, A again became silent and morose. B tried again to be chatty and chipper. A was again unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

After pausing for a moment, A responded, "Well, yeah."

B waited. "And what's wrong?"

A replied, "Well, it bothered me when you did Y."

B replied, "Oh, I guess went too far when I made that joke. I apologize and I won't do it again."

A said, "It's okay."

A and B again resumed the chatty/chipper routine. Then one day, A was again being silent, morose, unresponsive and distant. B was now annoyed that every time A was silent, morose, unresponsive and distant, B had to be the one who asked the question, "Is something wrong?" and drag it out of B. Neither A nor B proclaim to be mind-readers. Therefore, in order for either person to know what is bothering the other person, the person has to say it, rather than convey it through silent, morose, unresponsive and distant conduct.

B was now confronted with a few choices:

1) Repeat the above-mentioned cycle.

2) Not do anything and let A's passive aggression play itself out until A has no choice but to, on A's own initiative, confront B and therefore break the cycle.

3) Repeat the cycle and then afterwards say, "I'd appreciate it if you were more upfront about things when you're upset with me. It's difficult for me to understand what's going unless you talk about it."

Both #s 1 and 3 are enabling/perpetuating the cycle. Yet #2 is slightly passive aggressive.

At any rate, A and B are having dinner tonight. The truth will hopefully reveal itself then.

Oh my

2008-01-08T16:50:00.001-06:00

god. Today is January 8, 2008. I happened to walk into Walgreen's today to grab a soda when I saw an entire aisle -- an ENTIRE AISLE -- brimming with chocolates and candies and murals decorated in shades of hot pink, red, and white. Stores are already selling stuff for Valentine's Day! I still have candy canes from Christmas!

This is just as bad as seeing Christmas decorations as early as August. The holiday merchandise industry is crazy.

The binder clips

2008-01-07T17:33:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, there were three binder clips. By happenstance, they clipped three consecutive sets of documents in one case. And by happenstance, the sets of documents were unclipped at the same time, and the binder clips were placed facing each other. The binder clips were unsure who or what placed them there, only that a Great User dealt them their sets of documents. Yet for the first time, they were confronting each other face to face.

The first binder clip was small and silver. The second binder clip was medium and silver. And the third binder clip was medium and black.

Immediately, the black binder clip felt outnumbered by the silver clips. It envied the silvery finish of the other two clips yet took solace in knowing it bore the more traditional color of binder clips. The small binder clip also felt threatened as it was outnumbered by the two medium clips flanking it. They were much taller and wider than it was. Who knows what they could do to it?

Yet the medium silver binder clip felt at ease amongst its brethren. Could the medium silver binder clip bridge the gap between the black medium binder clip and the small silver binder clip? After all, it thought to itself, we are all Binder Clips.

They stared at each other in silence. "Gentlemen," the medium silver binder clip said. "I sense an unease."

The other two remained silent.

"Let me remind you that we are all one and the same," the medium silver binder clip continued. "Do we not have bodies of plastic and tongs of steel?"

The other two nodded grudgingly.

"Yes, the color of plastic may be different--" The medium black binder clip nodded.

"--And our sizes may vary--" The small silver binder clip nodded.

"--But we are the same." The medium black binder clip and small silver binder clip looked up at the medium silver binder clip.

"But we're not, really," the small silver binder clip said tentatively. "I am small, you both are medium."

"You both are silver, and I am black!" the medium black binder clip exclaimed.

"We are fundamentally different!" they both said.

"We are the same," the medium silver binder clip insisted. "We serve the same purpose. We have the same goal," its voice quivered with a metallic vibrato. "We clip documents!"

The other two binder clips looked at each other as the singularity of their purpose dawned on them.

"Yes," the small silver binder clip piped, "we do clip documents."

"I suppose so," the medium black one stated.

"Small binder clips are for small sets of documents. Medium binder clips are for medium sets of documents. And there are even large ones that clip large sets of documents," the medium silver binder clip continued. "You see? We all have our purpose. And the color of the binder clip has no bearing on the binder clip's ability. Some people like a little variety. Just look at us. Our Great User has used us both, not just silver, not just black, not just small, not just medium, but all colors and sizes."

The other two nodded with slow realization.

"We are the one and the same! We are . . . Binder Clips!" the medium silver binder clip snapped with a resounding finality.

As they all nodded in unison and reaffirmed their bond, they heard a noise. A door opened, all of a sudden the Great User entered the Realm. They became immediately silent, each hoping She hadn't heard their rumblings.

It was decided then. Theirs would be an unspoken pact among all binder clips, a realized purpose for all Binder Clip-kind. A secret from all Great Users.

Except this one.

Babymaniacs

2007-12-26T19:08:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-26T18:46:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-24T17:15:00.001-06:00

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

2007-12-24T17:01:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-23T18:17:00.000-06:00

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.