My 2 cents

I just heard a DJ on a very popular radio station say that "all Thai girls" and generally "all Asian girls" cheat on their guys. Even if it was just a joke, I was offended, and just emailed the radio station about it. I noted their right to free speech, but expressed that I was offended by the comment.

If they had made a comment about all African American women or all Hispanic women, they'd have hell to pay in this city.

Younger Guys

As a single girl, I have always been more attracted to older guys. They exemplify maturity, self-assuredness, and stability. Moreover, they have more experience--life experience and otherwise.

Recently however, I was confronted with the thought of dating a younger guy. The setting was less than scientific (a bar). The boy in question was half a decade younger than I was. He graduated from high school after I graduated from college. When I discovered the latter fact, the word "ick" came to mind.

I then wondered if I was being close-minded. He went to a good school. He had a decent job. He was a nice guy. (Not to mention he was legal.) It also didn't hurt that he was a good dancer with noticeable stamina and a very, very nice build. Ah yes, the latter traits seem to be absent in the conventional suits I typically pursue.

I then pondered over the virtues of the Younger Guy. He may have less experience, but he is eager to learn. He can be molded and tailored to the Older Woman's specific needs. He is more energetic, playful, and uninhibited. The boy in question was indeed young, but after dancing with him at length, any suspicions I had of residual boyishness were laid to rest. The boy was a man for sure.

So what to do? Younger Guy waited the requisite three days after I gave him my number before calling me and leaving a voicemail message. I kind of want to call him back. But I can't help but suspect that I want to call him back because: (1) it's been a while, and (2) it's been a while.

Despite this suspicion, I think I will call him back. At best, he'll be The One. At worst, he'll be a guy I'll have fun with. And who knows, I may teach him a lesson or two.

What's the question?

The age old question most every Asian in a non-Asian country faces is "What are you?" It sounds like such a philosophical question, a question that invites self-examination and introspection. But I know better. Instead of responding with "I'm an introvert with slightly reckless tendencies" or "human," I simply rephrase the question for them in a more satisfactory form (which is perhaps just as obnoxious).

When I was younger, I used to rephrase "What are you?" as "What is your nationality?" But I realized, nationality is more akin to citizenship than ethnicity. So then I thought the question ought to be "What is your ethnicity?" But the question assumes the listener has only one ethnicity when she may be multi-ethnic. So now my painfully crafted question is, "May I ask you what your ethnic background is?" Hence, when someone asks me, "What are you?" I respond, "Do you mean to ask what my ethnic background is?"

A variant of the "What are you?" question is "Where are you from?" With this, I take a slightly different approach. For example, when someone asks me this question, I say "Philly." Then they inevitably ask "No, I mean, where are your parents from?" Then I say "Philly." Then I usually add, "Do you mean to ask what my ethnic background is?"

And sometimes people just guess, and since 1 out of every 4 humans on this planet is Chinese, they usually guess Chinese and are wrong. Then I say, "Do you mean to ask what my ethnic background is?"

Hey, if people are going to be ignorant, might as well have a little fun with it.

The end of a non-friendship

After careful consideration, I've decided to release my Toxic Friend from the position of "Yellow Gal's Friend." I was on the phone with him the other day and was listening to yet another one of his pathologically narcissistic analyses on his life and how everything in the world is solely about him, when he added the final nail/straw by adding a sarcastic cutting insult. He is "The Big Baby" + "The Cutter."

Yep. That's the end of that friendship.

So one may wonder, why would a rational girl put up with such toxicity? Now, if someone were pure evil and hate, a rational girl would simply avoid befriending the person in the first place. The Toxic Friend however has genuinely enticing qualities. For example, s/he may be a fun person, someone so hilarious and charming that it makes you shrug off the fact that s/he insults you every so often.

In my case, my TF did several very generous acts for me. When I was in a tough spot and no one else was there for me, TF pulled through. He can also be pretty funny and witty. Moreover, when he pissed me off in the past, I mentally demoted him to "Friendly Acquaintance" from "Friend" which made it easier for me to rationalize staying in touch with him.

But after several years of friendship, moving back and forth between Friendly Acquaintance and Friend several times, and feeling hurt whenever he said something hurtful to me while in the Friend stage, I have concluded that this is it.

Life's too short to waste it on people who aren't worth it.

An adjustment

I was sitting on the train, self-absorbed and brooding over my relationships (or lack thereof) and life in general, when the doors opened and two gentlemen entered the train car. One had a long silver walking stick that darted back and forth; the other was guided forward by a chocolate Labrador wearing a harness. The men were blind.

"Come on," one said to the other as they clasped onto each other's arms and stood within the doors.

Their faces were weathered and aged, and their eyes were lightly closed. The one with the dog sat down in front of me. I looked at the dog and the bright sign around his body that read "Please don't pet me. I'm working." The dog sat down and blinked as he glanced around the room. The other man was about to sit down next to his friend when he felt with his hands the empty space and realized there was no chair there.

He faced the end of the car and asked loudly, "What stop is next?" A couple people responded in unison. When he heard the response, he said to his friend, "Ah, we're going the wrong way. Oh well.. time to get off and switch."

"All right," the other replied good-naturedly. And at the next stop they got off.

A wrong stop, having to switch trains. It seemed like another minor inconvenience, like finding a piece of lint on your jacket. I suddenly felt embarrassed for myself. It wasn't the circumstances that made me so bitter and them so content, it was the attitude. And I realized then I needed to adjust mine.

Age is just a number

I know I said I wouldn't talk about Online Guy #3 anymore. And really I'm not. This post isn't about Online Guy #3. It's about guys who lie online and eventually get caught.

What sparked the sequence of events that led to this pathetic post? My friend visited this weekend, and the subject of online dating came up. Of course, I discussed #3 and mentioned how the self-described 37-year-old looked a bit older in person than in his photo (a more aged face, a bit more gray). He was still handsome, so I went with it (obviously). Then blah blah blah he doesn't return my call after our second date.

My friend smirked and said, "Hey, maybe he's one of those guys in their early forties who say they're in their late thirties to get younger chicks."

"What?!" I said.

"Yeah, the sound of 'forty' is more of a turn-off than the sound of 'thirty.' "

"Come on, have you actually heard of guys in their forties lying online and saying they were in their thirties??"

He looked at me like I just asked him whether or not George W.'s IQ was a two-digit number. "Yeah."

This bugged me. So in my neurosis, I logged onto my online dating account for the first time in a long time, and saw -- lo and behold -- #3 was no longer 37. His age miraculously changed to 39. My jaw dropped. WHAT - THE - F?!

First, #3 and I separately indicated we were looking for long-term relationships. How can you lie about your age if you plan on being with someone long-term? Like somewhere down the line, when you're at the altar, you'll say "Hey honey, I'm not actually 30, I'm actually 50?" How did he think he was going to get away with that? (And yes, he did for a while, I know.)

Second, I remember telling him a story about how my friend was semi-deceived online by a guy, and how when he got caught, the deception was clearly a turnoff. Translation: lying online is bad and wrong. And he asked me for a second date after that.

I told two guy friends on two separate occasions about this and both of their reactions were identical: "Okay, and you are surprised because...?" It wasn't a shocker to them that a guy would lie about his age online. Okay I know that doesn't sound that surprising, but (1) I thought that only happened on sitcoms for comedic effect, and (2) I never thought it would happen to me.

So women and men, beware. And still I wonder, what the F is #3's real age?

1982

I remember 1982. I was four years old. We lived on the second floor of a rowhouse in northern Philly, the first floor being my father's fledgling pharmacy business. Our usual dinner consisted of rice, an egg, and spicy bean paste. Sometimes we would have ramen with an egg. And all four of us slept in one small room on two beds that were pushed against each other. My only inconveniences were my dad's loud snoring at night and the ridicule I received for wearing my brother's hand-me-down clothes. It never occurred to me at the time that I was poor.

I was content with baths rather than showers. And we had the luxury of owning an AC unit in one room, the cool room, I remember, the blue room, as the carpet was a light blue and the second-hand furniture my parents bought was a nylon navy blue. It was where our TV was, where we'd watch the Phillies or the news. In a matter of time, we'd be rich enough to buy an Atari unit. I remember the black joystick, with the orange button. I wasn't too good at the games, asteroids, spaced invaders, etc. Then again, I was only four.

After a couple years, my parents moved to the suburbs and bought a modest house. They nurtured the pharmacy to become a prominent business in our ethnic community. It was perhaps no surprise that when my father died over twenty years later, the business died with him. My mother sold the name, the title, the good will, the loyal customers, to a large pharmacy chain, and boarded up the signs bearing the name my father had bequeathed upon his business, his dream.

My mother still owns that building, that very building we grew up in, the one that gave us our livelihood. In 1982, I never for one moment felt poor. And now that I think about it, I realize we never were.

Ahhh!

Okay Cat got me on this Amazon.com-Asian-craziness-trip. I was reading the comments on the book How to Attract Asian Women when I saw this gentleman analogize his Asian fetishism to homosexuality -- as in, something one is born with and not something to be condemned. Words, words fail me now. His quote is as follows:

I am waiting for the day when white guys who are exclusively attracted to Asian girls like myself are given the understanding that homosexuals are given today among the enlightened and urbane. Like homosexuals, this is not a choice for me. I have had these feelings since puberty. I couldn't change them if I tried. For the record, I do see you as individuals, and not as stereotypes, not as submissive or whatever. I do not intend to objectify you, any more than anyone else does when they apply their various preferences to different individuals. Is a man objectified when he is rejected for not being this or that? Are you stereotyping me when you group me with all these negative qualities? Can you see me for myself? I want to see you and know you and understand you. I'm sorry that history depresses you. I'm not responsible for colonialism or the opium wars.

For Asian-American men who feel resentful of this cultural phenomenon, I truly apologize. You have my sympathy. I really wish more white women would date Asian men so that we could all collectively relax about this topic and just enjoy our relationships.

For all Asian-Americans, if you are really angry about cultural stereotypes and want to combat them, consider the fact that you may be a bit off-target in blaming whites exclusively. Asian-American women are not submissive sluts. Asian-American men are not cartoonish eunuchs, effiminate brutes, etc. However, after living in Asia for ten years (you can guess why) I can tell you that many of your ancestors do manifest these qualities. Whites have just been riffing off of what they found when our two cultures first met. Many are completely unaware that there is a taboo regarding these kinds of things in Western culture, and if they do know, they don't care. So why not make some effort to convince born and bred Asians to modernize, start showing some respect for women, encourage democracy (the antidote to "Draconian" autocratic systems which support the image of the Asian man as a little brute with penis envy), and fearlessly assert themselves? Otherwise you're just spinning your wheels and attacking symptoms instead of illnesses. The world gets smaller everyday, and these problems need to be addressed. As slong as the problems persist over there, they will here too. [sic]

Dude gets an A for effort. He manages to dress up his racial preference in liberal terminology.

Grosser than Gross

I was perusing Cat's blog when I saw her post on the book, How to Attract Asian Women. First, the fact that such a book exists grosses me out. Second, the quote she posted was so vile and offensive (see her post), it made me want to find that guy and chop his nuts off. Third, when I clicked on the link to the book I was further repulsed by how tacky the cover was: a picture of a smiling Asian chick in a tank top.

I can't believe there are guys out there throwing down money to read this book with the vain hope that there's some gimmick to getting women of the Orient!

Gross

I just saw a guy open his jacket to thoroughly sniff his armpit. Gross!

Saved

I have a male friend who was considering buying a one-way ticket to the Island of Lost Men. He had been fooling around with this one girl for a couple months, on and off. All the while, he thought it was innocent fun. There was no sex of any kind involved, which helps his case, and they never had the DTR talk (Define The Relationship). So in his eyes, this was all a casual thing between two friends who liked to fool around.

The girl, however, seemed to view things differently. Upon the coming and going of Valentine's Day and not having received anything--no chocolates, no card, not even a phone call--the girl called my hapless friend and left a voicemail message indicating that "we need to talk."

Now he was scared shitless. "What should I do?" he asked me. I immediately told him how sorry I felt for the girl. She probably imagined this entire relationship with him, wedding bells, minivans and all. Then all of a sudden she gets this reality check when he didn't even contact her on the big V Day. Instead of considering this, my friend pled to me, "What about me?"

"What about you?" I asked disdainfully. He didn't answer. "So when are you going to call her back?" I asked.

"Call her back?"

"Yeah, to talk to her."

"Uh, I'm not. I don't owe her anything. Look, what she thinks is her own doing. Whatever."

"So you're just never going to call her ever again?"

"Yeah. That's how I end these things."

"You end 'these things' by never calling these women ever again?? And you get away with that?!"

"Well I'm still alive today, aren't I? I haven't been shot yet."

Yet, I thought to myself. "Look, if you don't care what this girl thinks of you, then fine, it's a free country. I just think it might be respectful if you were upfront with her and told her like it was, rather than leaving her hanging."

He mused over this. "Yeah," he said. There might be hope for this guy after all. "And since we have mutual friends, I don't want to get a sketchy reputation," he added. How classic -- instead of thinking of her, he thought of how his behavior would affect him.

"Great," I said. One man saved from the Island. Although now I wonder if that was such a good idea in the first place.

A good flirt

Fellas,

You know you are a good flirt when you can make a girl feel so good about herself without giving her a single compliment,
        when you make it nearly impossible for her to resist replying to your emails even when you ask no questions,
        when you have her thinking about you and wondering why she's thinking about you when she's not even attracted to you,
        when she finds you inside her head at the most inopportune moments, like when she's ordering coffee or supposed to be listening to a friend,
        when you drop her off at her doorstep, bid her farewell, and leave her wanting more.

Yep, you're good.

Stupid

Few things are more mortifying than realizing, after sending a long, involved email out to some folks, that you accidentally included the WRONG PERSON in the email. Of course, this must then be followed up by a series of apologies, stilted polite sentences, and various kicks to one's self.

A suspicion

I have a suspicion that someone is semi-flirting with me. Not actual flirting, but semi-flirting. You see, he can't actually flirt with me because he is spoken for. Yet maybe he isn't actually flirting with me, maybe he's just friendly in a teasing, playful way. A guy can playfully tease a girl in a platonic manner, right? And maybe he is playful with everyone--men, women, dogs, cats, etc. Maybe I impose this stupid sexual element into every opposite sex interaction I have because I have this notion that men and women can't be friends unless at least one of the two is gay or they've been buds since 1990.

Or, he could actually be semi-flirting, but it's harmless semi-flirting, not dangerous semi-flirting. And there is a difference. One ends where it is, the other does not.

Still though, I feel slightly wrong for getting a semi-high from it. Not an actual high. A semi-high.

Being ugly

I don't remember the first time I was called ugly. My earliest memory was from fourth grade. A couple girls had visible crushes on this one boy, Sam. It was evident in their chasing him on the playground during recess and their constant teasing him during class, all of which was to no avail.

One day in art class, Sam and I happened to sit next to each other. We started chatting and joking around with the paint and messing up each other's art. Afterwards, we came back to our regular class where again we joked around and started cracking each other up. The two girls spied our interaction and immediately seized their opportunity.

"Oh my god, Sam likes Yellow Gal--Look at them!" they squealed. "Are you two going to kiss now? Ooh!" This was echoed by a few other classmates and followed by a chorus of giggles.

Mortified, Sam and I stopped talking to each other and concentrated on our classroom assignments. But the teasing continued throughout the day.

The next day, I was standing in the lunch line when Sam came up to me. "Look," he said, "I don't like you. You're ugly." Then he walked away.

That was my first memory of being called ugly.

The next memory I have was in seventh grade. A friend told me she overheard some boys talking about me.

"What'd they say?" I asked.

"It's not good," she muttered.

"What?"

"I feel bad," she said.

"Come on!"

"Well," she started, "one guy was saying how you were ugly." She barely whispered the word, "ugly."

I felt my stomach drop. "Uh huh."

"Then the other guy said, 'She's not just ugly, she's dog-ugly,' " my friend continued.

"And...?"

"And then they started laughing and kept saying how ugly you were."

"Okay."

"Are you upset?"

Upset wasn't quite the word. What was it? Humiliated? Stupid? Or better yet, ugly? There probably was no better time to be called ugly than in seventh grade. This event perhaps preceded my I-wish-I-was-white-with-blonde-hair-and-blue-eyes phase. I can still remember to this day looking in the mirror one particularly low day, wearing black as I frequently did back then, and just hating my face. I know I wasn't disfigured, but my features were just so ugly. I actually made a mental list of plastic surgeries I wanted:

• Nose job - to raise and narrow my flat nose
• Cheekbone implants - to give distinguished definition to my round, flat face
• Eye surgery - to enlarge my narrow eyes
• "Growth surgery (Yeah I don't know how this was feasible but I wanted it) - to be taller than the barely 5'0 height I was in seventh grade

Despite my pleas, my parents did not consent to these surgeries. Eventually though, my face developed and changed through high school into college. My nose grew from my face. My face narrowed. And I learned dark eye shadow could give the illusion of illuminating eyes. I only grew a little bit more, but I figured, I'd rather be petite than giant.

And while I do believe my face did change since my youth, part of me suspects that perhaps my face didn't change that much. Perhaps it was just my perception that changed. Perhaps the real change was gaining more confidence, or more specifically, realizing that looking Asian doesn't equal being ugly.

A sidewalk day

I have two kinds of days. Some days I walk facing forward, my spine straight. Other days, I walk looking down at the sidewalk. Today was a sidewalk day.

Last night I hung out with a girl I met at a professional social function. We seemed to get along really well, when at one point in the night, I, in my drunken silliness, did something that really offended her. She did the verbal equivalent of bitchslap me. After some arguing, we resolved the issue and agreed that "we were cool." But I can never tell.

The relationship between girls is very interesting. I'm used to people being passive aggressive (as I too engage in this behavior). I've seen people get pissed, pretend they're fine, when in reality, they're still pissed and they hate you behind your back. It's difficult to discern what's real and what's a facade.

She had told me on a prior occasion that if she has a problem with someone, she will say it to someone's face, and have none of that talk-about-people-behind-their-backs b.s. She clearly demonstrated this philosophy last night. Still I can't help but wonder (and worry) about whether she's ultimately pissed at me, or if, as she says, "we're cool."

It's strange how a girl can obsess as much about her female relationships as she does her male relationships. Ack!

Not a scene from a real sitcom

In the next episode of the semi-autobiographical sitcom, "The Last Cynical Romantic":

Yellow Gal and Friend are sitting on a couch, watching television. "I had lunch with New Beau today," Friend says.

"Cool," Yellow Gal replies. "How was it?"

"It went well," Friend says. "The weather was nice, we had a good time."

"Cool."

"And after lunch, he asked me to be his valentine."

Yellow Gal slowly turns from the television to look at Friend. Not surprisingly, Friend is smiling. Yellow Gal asks, "You're joking, right?"

"Nope," Friend says, unable to stop smiling. Yellow Gal is now wondering whether Friend is smiling because she's genuinely happy or because she's embarrassed.

"No really, he asked you in all earnestness to be his valentine?"

"Yes!" Friend replies, "and I said 'yes'!"

"He asked in those exact words, 'Will you be my valentine'?"

"Yes," Friend laughs.

Yellow Gal slowly turns from Friend back to the television. It takes every ounce of effort and will power for Yellow Gal to hold her tongue. Had she not, she might have busted out laughing or emitted a sarcastic remark. But Yellow Gal, being a trained cynic, knows when to hold her tongue and just smile. And so she does.

Yellow Gal's voiceover: There is a fine line between sweet romance and drippy cheesiness, and New Beau crossed it. I was embarrassed for Friend, but even more so for New Beau. Asking someone "Will you be my valentine?" is akin to dressing up in a pink heart-shaped jumpsuit and singing a specially composed jingle. And yes, I would rather be single on V-day than be with a pink jumpsuit.

[Looks at Friend who is smiling ear to ear]

Voiceover continues: But who knows--perhaps I have become too jaded?

[Envisions pink jumpsuit with jingle in background]

Nah.

When

I was walking outside today when I passed by a church, and in front of the church was a black car with a small bright flag on the antenna. It read "FUNERAL." A man in black was walking inside the church as I passed by.

And so I thought of death. I had always resigned to the fact that I would probably die of a heart attack. A couple of my uncles and my father all died of a heart attack. And starting from my early twenties, I have had moderate-high cholesterol. In a way, it was comforting to know in advance my "natural" death (absent a plane crash, fire, bombing, etc.).

I knew before my father died that he would die of a heart attack. When you have a family history of heart disease, a few heart attacks, an angioplasty or two, and a diagnosis that your main artery is completely clogged and it's a miracle you're walking today, you probably have an idea of how you're going to die.

Of course, my belief in how I would die was shaken when I was talking with my brother the other day. He informed me that though the men on my dad's side all died of heart attacks, the women have lived to an old age. My dad's older sisters are still alive, in their 80s. And my aunt who is a year older than my dad eats pork and beef like there's tomorrow and she has outlived my dad. So now my theory of dying of a heart attack is thrown out the window.

If I were given a crystal ball that could tell me how I would die, I would probably not look. I mean, it would be quite traumatizing to see that I would die by drowning or murder. Kind of a bummer on the rest of one's life, right? (And tampering with the events would disrupt the space-time continuum, as Doc would say.)

So the question remains a question. If I think about it too much, it starts to freak me out. So I'll just stop right now.

My own tabula rasa

I was on the phone last night with The Naysayer. We were debating whether or not one should fully disclose one's entire romantic history to one's long-term partner. He believes that in order to have an open and honest marriage, one must inform the spouse-to-be how many sexual partners one has had, every sexual deviant act one has performed, the history, synopsis, and reason for the demise of every previous relationship and encounter, to name a few. Failure to do so is equivalent to concealing things from the spouse-to-be.

I, on the other hand, argued that who or how many people one has dated/had sex with is in the past. Therefore, it is not relevant. For example, suppose one night in college, a man had a one-night stand with a woman. Since then, he has been in long-term relationships. I would argue that the incident in college was in the past and is not relevant to who he is now (a monogamist). The Naysayer would say that the one-night stand is relevant to who the man is today, that it in some way shaped his character (maybe it turned him off), and that he has an obligation to tell his future wife about it. If he does NOT tell his wife, he is being deceitful and dishonest.

Now, I agree that if something presently relates to one's relationship, then it is relevant and merits disclosure. Even something in the past can currently affect one's relationship. For example, suppose a girl's ex-boyfriend was abusive. She may as a result be terrified of angering her current boyfriend. This is an instance of the past affecting the present relationship.

However declining to divulge one's entire sexual history is not a marital sin. Who the person is right now--his personality, quirks, dreams, hopes, etc.--defines him. With whom he has had sex and with how many women do not define him. I don't affix a label onto a man who has been with five women versus ten women. The number is meaningless to me. If the man is healthy right now, if he does not pose a sexual, physical, or emotional threat to me right now, and if I love who is he is right now, then I can safely say the past is in the past.


Disclaimer/Caveat-bull ish: I am stating all this for argument's sake and I really don't know what the "right thing" is, or where the line is between sharing too much info and too little. And I acknowledge the possibility that, as The Naysayer bluntly indicated, all of this is a thinly veiled defense mechanism to deal with my less than pristine past. Perhaps, perhaps. But I stand by my tabula rasa!

Bleh

Few things are worse than accidentally dousing your cooking with too much soy sauce and then forcing yourself to eat it all because it was ingrained in you as a child of poor immigrants to never ever waste food.

Bleh.

A girl walks into a bar

It was Friday. I had semi-made plans with a friend for Friday night. Then, on Friday, she informs me that better plans came up, and she'd rather do that then follow through on the plans we semi-made. (She phrased it much more tactfully than that.) Another girlfriend was hanging out with the New Beau that night, so I was left to my own devices.

Instead of staying in and watching another rented movie for the 9,345,834th straight weekend, I decided to go out. Alone.

I had never gone to a bar alone on a weekend night, and I always envisioned that chicks who did that were either looking to hook up or were bummed and wanted to drink their sorrows away. I was neither. Nonetheless, I wanted to do something different, something perhaps dangerous yet at the same time exciting.

I chose a bar that was laid back and understated, not pretentious, not trendy. As I walked toward the bar, I became a little nervous. What the heck, would I just go in, order a couple drinks, and uh wait for the action to happen? No idea. But it was something new. And it was better than staying in after being jilted by my friend.

I peeked in the window and saw it was not too crowded, which made me hesitate at first, but I said to myself, "Just go in." I took a deep breath and opened the door.

The bar stools were all taken except for one. A guy was standing by it (Immediate Assessment: Cute). So I walked up to the chair and asked him if it was taken. He said, "No." I replied, "Are you sure? Because you're standing right next to it."

He looked at the chair. "No, I mean, I might have sat in it, but I will always give up my seat for a lady."

"Oh, ha ha," I said and then sat down. "Thank you. And sorry."

"No my pleasure, I will give my seat for a lady, a pretty lady at that, but any lady will do."

I looked at his glass of beer. "How many of those have you had?"

"Four."

"Ah," I said. Then I ordered myself a Jack on the rocks. The first of many.

The standing guy was apparently with a guy sitting in the stool right next to me. I knew I could've pursued the conversation, but I wanted to scope out the place a bit more. I looked around the room, and saw everyone was securely affixed into their little cliques. I remained the sole drinker.

So the two guys next to me were talking about movies. They were speaking somewhat loudly, so I couldn't help but eavesdrop. Then they began talking about that Groucho Marx quote in my Annie Hall entry below. They were butchering the quote and they weren't even sure if it was Groucho Marx. I couldn't take it any more so I turned to them and said, "No, the quote is this: 'I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.' And yes it is by Groucho Marx. I know this because Woody Allen quotes it in 'Annie Hall.' "

They blinked at me, and then nodded. Standing Guy said "Oh so are you a movie buff?"

"No, I just happened to have seen that movie not too long ago."

So all three of us got into a conversation and talked about stuff ranging from politics to types of beer. They were best buds with the bartender, so I met him as well. Each of them bought me a Jack on the rocks (which got me a tad tipsy).

At some point in the conversation, both guys gave me their "contact information." Standing Guy gave me his number, while Sitting Guy gave me his business card. Then later into the night, Sitting Guy left (who was married). I'm left with Standing Guy.

We stayed longer, chatting and flirting, even after the bar closed at 2 AM. The bartender played some wacky videos on the bar tv and let a few other cronies in. Standing Guy and I left the bar at 3-something in the morning and went to a diner across the street and talked even more. I learned a few extra things about him that lead me to think this was not long term relationship material (e.g. he smokes & he lives with his mom). Afterwards, he walked me home, which I thought was nice. He asked to "use the bathroom," which some other guy told me was a ploy to get inside, and I said (truthfully) that my place was a mess. We hugged and then he said "Call me."

Now if he tried, I would have let him kiss me. And if he asked me for my #, I would have given it. But oh well. I was in bed by 5:15 AM.

All in all, a fun time. At a bar alone.

The rat part deux

Someone cleaned up The Rat immediately after I posted the below entry. It was almost as if the person had stumbled upon my blog, knew that I was talking about him, and out of sheer mortification, cleaned it up.

At least that's what I'd like to think.