The dangers of online dating

There are many dangers of online dating. The most obvious is the possibility of encountering some psychotic stalker or serial killer. Then there is the more innocuous yet still disturbing danger of encountering the deceptive man who posts a remarkably flattering picture of himself, when in reality he clearly is not Brad Pitt's long lost twin brother. But the danger I speak of is not as grave nor as serious, yet perhaps the most common among online daters.

I'm talking about built up expectations.

As far as I know, the online dating process goes as follows:
1) One encounters the guy's profile and picture.
2) One exchanges flirtatious emails with the guy.
3) One speaks with the guy on the telephone.
4) One finally meets the guy.

Right now, I'm in stage 2: exchanging semi-flirty emails. I've given the guy my cell phone number, which he refuses to call. Yet he continues to email me which means he is minimally interested. He still hasn't asked me out. At this point, I've decided I will ask him to coffee. But since I'm on holiday at the moment, I won't be able to ask him for over a week. So this leaves me with just his witty emails, his online profile, and his picture.

Since I was a young child, I've had a very imaginative and semi-ADD mind. So it should not be a surprise to the reader that I've extrapolated a three-dimensional image of this guy from his (very cute) picture, or more specifically, his face atop his self-described lean body. I imagine being with him, dating him, and yes, even kissing him. And I haven't even met the guy yet. This is ridiculous.

Below is a quote that warns against precisely this thing:

Don't fall in love with an e-mail
Too often, people think they've fallen in love with someone through e-mail or over the phone before they even meet. People have actually quit their jobs and moved cross-country to be with someone without once meeting face-to-face—that's not advisable! Face it: Your mind can conjure up lots of romantic notions when you're reading these wonderful e-mails—but nothing replaces that face-to-face meeting. Do you feel a physical connection or not? It's that elusive spark of attraction that separates great friends from lovers. Make sure it's there before you let your fantasy override reality.
—Eva Eschner, author of Virtual Foreplay: Making Your Online Relationship a Real-Life Success

Ms. Eschner might as well have started it with "Dear Yellow Gal." It's so easy to say, "Don't feel X." But to actually obey that commandment is not so easy.

This is all happening despite my having gone through this before with my last online date. I'm irritating myself with my nonsensical stupidity.

Dinner in a diner

My mom was telling me about a time when it was just she and my dad. It was the early 70s. They were leaving their crappy apartment in South Central LA to drive their crappy Volkswagen Bug to a crappy basement apartment in Queens, NY.

This meant they had to drive through the Midwest.

Now there are some areas of the country that even today I am afraid to visit. I can't imagine my parents, my fresh off the boat parents, stopping for dinner in a diner in the rural Midwest in the early 70s.

They were in Kansas or some nearby state. The moment they walked in the door, everyone turned around and stared at them. (At this point in the story, I imagined the needle slipping off the record in the corner jukebox.) Everyone literally gaped at them, their eyes bulging. Forks dropped from petrified hands onto plates. As my parents made their way to a table, Caucasian eyes and heads followed.

"It was so uncomfortable," my mom said.

"You don't say," I replied.

They had no problems thankfully. They simply ate their meal awkwardly as the entire diner blatantly stared at the Orientals seen only on TV or in newspapers.

It was just another dinner in a diner in the good ol' U.S. of A.

Just some free time

I understand that if I were to rant about every single instance of nonsensical stupidity in this blog, I would: (a) never leave the house, and (b) create a blog so enormous that the entire blogger server would crash. So to save myself from the dangers of hermitude and the world from bloglessness, I only rant about one out of every billion instances of nonsensical stupidity. The following rant is of just one such instance.

I am in the airport terminal, retrieving my ticket and checking in my luggage. I dutifully show them my driver's license at which point they nod and usher my bag onto the appropriate conveyor belt. I then wait in one of three lines for the security checkpoint, where they scan one's carry-on luggage and one walks through that door-frame-like scanner. I naturally choose the slowest line.

When the security personnel asks for my ID, I again produce my driver's license. She studies it for five minutes. Then she asks me if I have any other form of picture ID. I open my wallet uselessly, pretend to look for the nonexistent form of additional ID, and say "no."

"Well," she says in her sagely, authoritative voice, "your driver's license expired on December 12, and it's December 16. You need to go through extra security clearance."

I look at her. "Right," I say nodding, "naturally, the moment my license expired, I magically transformed into someone other than Yellow Gal. Even though my license bears my name and a picture that looks exactly like me, it's possible that I am no longer me because four days ago, my license expired."

She looks at me and blinks, clearly not getting it.

"And if I were a terrorist, of course I would choose to forge an expired driver's license because I want to draw attention to myself. You know, Ms. Airport Security Personnel--you're a fucking genius. You should work for the FBI." At that point, her head explodes with overwhelming logic and I frolic in her demise.

Of course, none of this happens.

Instead, I am nudged to a special security line where I am molested with a wand and a latex gloved hand, and where I endure the public humiliation that inevitably accompanies having to take off one's shoes and realizing one decided to wear the sock with the huge gaping hole over the unpedicured left big toe.

I love nonsensical stupidity. Without it, what would we do with all our free time in airports?

Jennifer

Jennifer was not a remarkably pretty girl, but I remember the first time I saw her in third grade. She wore glittery stars in her hair. I later learned she had moved just a block from my house.

Throughout middle school and high school, we were friendly acquaintances at best. We were invited to each other's parties, but only because we had so many mutual friends. For as long as I can remember, I always liked to write, whether it be stories or essays. In school, I received good grades on my writing, as I suppose I did consistently good work. But Jennifer--she was consistently brilliant.

We were in the same English honors class senior year, and occasionally the teacher would ask the well-written pieces to be read in front of class. I had the opportunity to do so once or twice, but I remember Jennifer reading one of her essays. It was so artfully worded, so perfectly written, that after she finished reading, the class literally sat there for a few seconds in silent awe.

As an adult, I remember reading something Jennifer had written as a sixth grader. It was only three paragraphs long, but it was something I couldn't even write right now. She was brilliant, even then as a 12-year-old child.

Coincidentally we attended the same college, and again remained casual acquaintances at best (meaning that our relationship consisted of saying "hi" if we saw each other in the hall). Oddly enough, I never really felt jealous of Jennifer, nor did I ever feel there was any competition. There was no contest--she was clearly a genius. I suppose it was more like a quiet, admiring acceptance. Other than passing by her in the hallway, I encountered her in campus newspapers. Jennifer entered numerous writing contests ... and won every one. She received national awards from the likes of John Irving. It didn't surprise me in the least.

And so that was several years ago. A mutual friend updated me on Jennifer. She's working a normal 9 to 5 job and self-described herself as a "struggling writer." I can't believe she hasn't published at least three books by now, or hasn't guest starred on Oprah yet, or isn't teaching writing at a prestigious university. I know it's just a matter of time before she's "discovered." And when the world applauds her genius, I'll be there saying "Told you so."

The nicest catcall

Like any other female with remotely visible boobs and two legs, I've been subjected to strange men's catcalls. There are the usual "hey baby" or "hi sexy"--very unoriginal and cliche, I must say. Then there are the very lewd comments, bordering on pornographic, like "I wanna **** **** ******** **** ***!" (No, those *'s don't really spell anything.)

I think the nicest random comment I got on the street occurred on a rainy day. I was walking through Times Square with my umbrella after work, brushing by the rush hour sidewalk traffic, when for a moment I made eye contact with a random man. Obviously, when you're looking straight ahead, you're bound to make eye contact with some random people. At any rate, I continued walking when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see it was the same gentleman I had just made eye contact with.

"Hi there," he said, "I just want to say that I just walked by you and I think you're very beautiful."

I involuntarily smiled and said, "Oh... thank you."

He shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Tony. May I ask what your name is?"

"Yellow Gal," I responded.

"Well, it's nice meeting you Yellow Gal. I just wanted to let you know how I felt."

"Thank you," I said. And then I smiled and continued to walk away. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn't bad looking either. But I had a boyfriend at the time. Still, it was the nicest thing a stranger has ever said to me.

Michael Moore

has got balls. I just saw "Bowling for Columbine." Whether you hate him or love him, you've gotta give him credit for asking the blunt questions he unflinchingly asks.

The movie also brought up an interesting question: Why is there such a great disparity in the number of gun-related murders in the U.S. vs. Canada, despite both countries having comparable demographics, numbers of sold guns, levels of poverty, and exposure to violent television, movies, and video games? What the heck makes the U.S. so frigging violent?

I found amusing how people in Toronto freely admitted to the camera that they left their front doors unlocked--which to me is absolutely unheard of. Michael Moore then tested these statements by going to a Toronto neighboorhood and randomly opening front doors of houses. And, amazingly enough, the doors were all unlocked. Crazy!

"Home"

I'm going home soon. Not my apartment, but the home I lived in for most of my life. I still call it "home" even though I haven't lived there for about ten years. It's still so clear to me though.

Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.

Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.

It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.

My birthday

I just turned...um...a late-twenty-something number this past weekend. Even though I am "officially" in my late twenties, I still feel like I'm 23 or 24. That is until I meet an actual 23 or 24 year-old, with their unjaded hopefulness, youthful skin, and unfurrowed brows.

As we all left this very loud club this weekend, we were complaining like old ladies, like "That music was so loud!" and "My feet hurt!"

The descent into menopause begins...

What was the question?

I was having a conversation with my very good friend last night. I was seeking his advice on how to get a guy to ask me out. His response: "Ask him out."

I proceed to tell him that I am incapable of asking a guy out because 1) I'm a wuss, 2) I fear rejection, and 3) I believe that men are repelled by aggressive women who ask men out.

He summarily dismissed the latter two reasons and added a new reason #2: Yellow Gal is irrational. He insisted that men like a woman who takes charge, who makes the move, who knows what she wants and goes for it, "The Rules" be damned.

"But wait," I responded, "doesn't that turn the guy off? Don't men want to pursue rather than be pursued?"

"Bull shit. You're a wuss."

"But Cosmo said--"

"Cosmo is bull shit."

"Okay so I'm a wuss. Now how do I get a guy to ask me out?"

"You will end up old and alone because you are paralyzed by your fear of rejection. Fine. Have fun in your nursing home as a spinster with your nine cats."

"Uh--"

"While you're at it, never pursue any dream, never apply for that promotion, and continue to waste away in your cesspool of self-doubt, fear, and stagnation..."

[Okay he didn't really say this word for word, but that's what he meant.]

He continued, "...Forego any and all hope of pursuing anything that might make you happy because you might [gasp] be rejected. If you and this guy don't end up going out, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

At this point, I'm getting annoyed by his condescending self-righteousness, but naturally I have no comeback.

So that's the tough-love-advice my friend gave me. And still the question remains: How do I get a guy to ask me out?

Stupid people

Once upon a time, I was on the phone with a Sprint customer service representative. He asked me for my address. After I gave him my street address, he asked me for the city. "New York City," I replied. He said, "Okay I should know this, but what state?"

Even though I am agnostic, I believe in the tenets of evolution, more specifically, in natural selection. So it poses quite a mystery to me as to how stupid people have managed to survive for thousands and thousands of years. They have survived countless plagues, wars, and famines. Yet they don't know how to tie their shoelaces.

So all of this first leads me to believe that stupid people serve some purpose in the natural order (whether it be created by God, concocted by the "superman," or sprung from chaos). Without stupid people, what would the world be? What would all the smart and average people do with their time? What will happen to that grand old sport of banging your head on bricks for fun? And who will serve as the next guest on Jerry Springer?

Or MAYBE all this knowledge and education is irrelevant to evolution. If you are capable of coitus, then that is sufficient to propagate the species. All this nonsense about New York and 1 + 1 equaling 2 is simply unnecessary.

At any rate, the prevalence of stupid people will never cease to amaze me. When someone gives his real name to a bank teller while robbing a bank or when someone thinks that his credit limit on his credit card is "free money," I am born anew in the wonders of evolution's creation.


Necessary caveats:
1) My labeling the Sprint representative one of those "stupid people" may be tainted by his incompetence and inability to assist me in any shape, way, or form. He might have been in fact a genius.

2) I know there are other cities called New York. But should one possess the ever-so-rare ability to understand probability, one may make the educated guess that the individual is referring to New York, New York, the largest city in the U.S., and not New York, Georgia, which I don't think the Sprint rep was grappling with.

3) I am aware of the brain fart, which afflicts even the most brilliant of minds. e.g. Dude with an IQ of 200 tells himself fifteen times before he leaves the apartment, "Don't forget your car keys." Dude forgets the car keys. Brain fart.

Bloggy

You know you're way too bloggy when you see something peculiar in the street and the first thing you think to yourself is "This should totally go into my blog!"

Plain Jane

Jane was good at a lot of things. But she was very good at only three things. They were:

1) Holding her breath. Four minutes and three seconds was her personal best.
2) Bowling. Her average was a 230.
3) Pretending to be happy. Or more specifically, pretending to not be miserable.

Yes Jane was very good at pretending to be happy. She mastered the art of delightful small talk. Her craft was honed during countless elevator rides and drunken office parties. When people asked about her job, her family, or her life overall, she simply affixed her perfect smile and recited her well-rehearsed soliloquy on how fucking happy she was.

Even with her "close friends," Jane was ostensibly happy. She pretended to ooh and aah over her friends' work woes, their new boyfriends, or the new cashmere sweaters they bought at Bloomingdale's. Their conversations were more like empty noises than real conversations. The more she spoke about herself, the more hollow her chest felt.

And every night, she would come home to her empty, spotless apartment, jog on her treadmill for an hour, shower, and make herself a turkey rye sandwich. Then without fail, she would cry for about two hours. Afterwards, she would wipe her eyes, brush her teeth, wash her face, and go to bed.

It was all very routine. The cycle would repeat the next morning. And repeat. Jane took a special pride in this gift she had, the gift to pretend.

That was until one day. One point five hours into her nightly crying spell, there was a soft knock at the door. She grabbed a tissue and opened the door with a "what?"

There was a man there. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, covering her blotchy face with her tissue.

"Okay. I was just leaving my buddy's apartment and heard you and just wanted to make sure everything was all right."

"I'm fine," she said.

"You don't seem fine," he pressed.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "Um, I'm just going to get back to--"

"Get back to crying?" he said. She looked at him. Did he just smirk?

"I'm Jared by the way. May I ask your name?"

She was not obligated to give her name to a completely random stranger, but she did. "Jane," she said, "Plain Jane." He blinked at her. God, why did she get Tourette's whenever a not-so-ugly guy spoke to her?

"Hi Jane," he said.

"Okay gotta go bye," she said closing the door on his smirk.

She went back to her couch and box of tissues to resume crying. She still had twenty-five minutes left. She sat there and waited. Nothing happened.

"Goddamn it," she muttered to herself. Goddamn that smirk. That guy. What's his name. Jared.

I am a white swan

I checked my email and saw that one online dude emailed me. He was ridiculously old and unattractive so I naturally clicked on his profile to check him out. He described himself and his perfect mate as follows (and incidentally, he is white):

I am very romantic, very peaceful and a very mature person and think very rationally. I am very respectful of ladies. I adore Asian woman and I think they are the most beautiful creations in this world and they are the gift of God (if there was any God) to the men of this world. I love them and would do any thing for my dream Asian Angel, with the long black hair. I have traveled to over 93 countries all around the world, and I find Asian women are the most beautiful, delicate, softest, most romantic, very loyal, warm hearted, most catering to man and very, very ... "Hot". An Asian Lady to me is like a white swan in a calm and beautiful lake Geneva, like a ballerina of dreams in the best Russian Ballet in St. Peters Burge, the most beautiful and aromatic rose in the Garden of Eden, like the aroma of the pink “Plumeria” (Hawaiian flower), and with free spirits like the snow covered peaks of mount Kilimanjaro. An Asian Lady is my DREAM WOMAN, and I will not rest until my dreams come true. “WOULD YOU WALK TO MY DREAM", you Asian Angel? Yes you! I mean you, reading these words! Could you be the one to make my dreams come to a reality? Will you be my lifetime partner? You never know? Why don’t you contact me?????

-------------
OKAY, in all seriousness, is this dude for real? It is so utterly ridiculous that I think it's a joke. I almost want to email him and be like, "Is this a joke?"

If it isn't a joke, then I am most flattered that I am someone's dream woman / white swan / most beautiful creation / dream come true.

Old friends

I'm going to see some people I have not seen in a long time.

Why does the prospect of seeing old friends all of a sudden trigger the urges to go on a diet, work out twice a day, and come up with a spiel as to how my love life and career are in their "working stages"? I know they're not friends with me because of my body fat percentage or my stats, but because of my oh-so-charming personality. I know this. But the urges beckon.

Odd isn't it?

Second date (a.k.a. "Last date")

Online Date did call me and ask me out for a second date on Saturday night to a pool hall. I was needless to say, ecstatic.

It had been a while since I "had" a guy. For the first time in what felt like a century, I'd be on a fun date with a cute, intelligent guy that would hopefully end with a kiss. I hadn't kissed a guy in a very very long time, so one may understand why I fell into that trap that certain women fall prey to: extrapolating ridiculously overdramatic theories a/b one's future with this potential boyfriend. I even went so far as to imagine introducing him to my family (yes, pathetic, I know).

I badgered my guy friend into telling do's and don'ts on a second date. Obvious don'ts: sex of any kind, and even harmless nudity. A kiss in the car or even an extended make-out session should be sufficiently non-slutty.

So it was Saturday night. Online Date was 10 minutes late when he picked me up. Sitting next to him in the car, he looked a bit goofier. And the conversation stalled a few times as we drove to the pool hall. Still I remained optimistic.

We went to a pool hall (despite my poor shooting skills) when I began to see his True Self.

You see, on our bistro date, I was impressed by his ability to articulate his thoughts on philosophy and science. Yet in a casual, fun setting, he was utterly socially inept. Like an eight year old boy, he spent most of the evening teasing me. Not quite "You're fat and ugly!" but more like "that coat makes your head look like a balloon! ha ha!"

When I neglected to laugh at one of his oh-so-witty jokes, he gave me a knowing nod and said, "I'm joking. Sorry, sometimes it's hard to get my sarcasm." I didn't feel like explaining that it wasn't his sarcasm I didn't get--just his utterly bad, stupid, witless comments.

Every several minutes or so, he would jokingly antagonize me by making fun of me and mocking me. When I mentioned I liked dancing, he started mock-dancing, asking me, "Is this how you dance?" [Picture the Chandler dance from "Friends." Now picture Yellow Gal with a mixed expression of horror and disgust.]

What grade are we in? He didn't pull my pig tails but he did slap my left ass cheek randomly. At this point, my desire to have a boyfriend to kiss was replaced by an overwhelming desire to fashion a noose out of my scarf. Instead of noose-making, however, I merely said, "I need a drink."

We went to the bar whereupon I downed two consecutive Jack Daniels on the rocks to numb the pain. Whilst sipping our drinks, we began talking -- analogizing the Prime Directive of Star Trek to U.S. foreign policy. And he became normal again--articulate, intelligent, coherent. Then when we resumed shooting pool, he reverted to his third grade self. And my whiskey buzz did not alleviate the misery laden in his pathetic jokes.

Moreover, I realized we had little in common in terms of movies and hobbies. He did NOT like "Office Space" though he ironically spoke like Lumbergh. I concluded that while we were capable of having deep conversations, we were incapable of socializing on a normal, casual level.

Finally, pool came to an end. He suggested going to another bar which I vetoed with a stern "no." In the car, more pain ensued. My name, as I always indicated in person and in email, was Yellow Gal. Yet in the car (and perhaps a few other times throughout the night) he began calling me Yellow Gallygal. I corrected him, saying "My name is not Yellow Gallygal. It's Yellow Gal."

He then entered into annoying-joking mode and gleefully badgered, "Why don't you like Gallygal? What happened? Were you teased as a child? Traumatized by horrible childhood memories? [chuckle]"

I curtly responded, "Because it's not my name. My name is Yellow Gal. How would you like if I called you Online Dateramamama or Online Dumbass?"

He paused, musing over my exasperated remark, and said, "Okay. Yellow Gal it is."

"Thank you," I replied.

He pulled in front of my apartment and I awkwardly said, "Well I had a good time. Thanks for taking me out."

"My pleasure," he said.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, avoided eye contact, and placed my hand on the car door handle. "Well good night!" I squeaked. He then unbuckled his seatbelt--to do what? I didn't know and didn't want to find out. "Bye!" I said as I opened the door and bolted from his car.

And that, my dear friends, is known as my second/last date with Online Date #1.

The following morning, Online Date called me, leaving me a message asking me to spend the day with him. Perhaps only more shocking than his behavior on Saturday night is how he perceived my constant grimaces, curt remarks, and failure to laugh at his jokes as indicators that I liked him so much that I would want to see him immediately the following day. I did not return his call & instead wrote him today a Dear John email. It ended the way it began.

Next.

First date

Last night I went on my first online date. The man did not bring a shovel or a pickax nor did he wear a Michael Jackson glove. He was well-groomed, spoke in proper English, and did not bite. And he looked like his picture. Some of my friends reported meeting guys who would post pictures from their high school yearbook only to learn that these guys gained a hundred pounds since. In my case, my guy was quite cute.

I'm usually terrified of attractive men, but he had a slight air of unpretentious goofiness that put me at ease. We met at a bistro downtown and talked. And talked.

It was one of those great conversations where you lose track of time, where you talk about everything from Marxism to Dennis Rodman, where you forget there are other people in the room so when you pound the table cackling at an insanely funny story, you don't notice the twenty or so patrons staring at you with disdain. So much fun. All in about three hours on a Monday evening.

At the end of the evening, I shook his hand (too formal?) and told him I had a great time. We exchanged our real numbers and he said he'd definitely call me (will he?). Then he opened his arms to hug me and so we hugged.

All in all, a great date. I hope he calls. God even as I blog this, I can't help but well up with excitement like a giddy little girl.

My guy friend told me some guys humor girls and tell them they'll call, hug them, etc. and then end up never seeing the girl again. I found that disconcerting. Yet my friend assured me this dude will probably call. Then I wondered if my guy friend was, in guy fashion, humoring me. I suppose we'll see.

My morning affirmation

I literally broke my scale. The tiny plastic window with the small red line that points to the number is cracked. It was so tragic, so utterly cliche, that I could not help but laugh.

The persimmons

My aunt had given me nine persimmons last week. Each was perfectly orange and firm. There may have been a bruise or a scratch on a few, but for the most part they were healthy and smooth. I dutifully took them home with me and placed them in my refrigerator, arranging them into perfect rows of three.

Following that day, I would frequent my fridge to grab some soda or juice. Each time I opened the refrigerator, the light revealed the persimmons in their perfect rows, looking up at me hopefully, longing to be plucked from their refrigerated existence and fulfill that purpose for which they were grown. Yet each time, I would take a carton or can and close the door upon them in cool darkness.

Days went by. Their small leaves began to dry and fray. Their luster, though steadfast, began to dull. Yet each day they remained bright and hopeful. Soon, it had been over a week. I began to rationalize to myself, it's been over a week, they’re probably not good anymore. And so I went into a small wooden cabinet, took out one black plastic bag, and placed each one inside it. They were still smooth and cool in my hand.

I took the bag to the dumpster outside my apartment building and placed them gently on a pile of debris. “They’re just fruit,” I reminded myself as I closed the lid.

Later that night, I was peeling an orange, when I thought of the persimmons. My nine persimmons. Small. Cold. And alone.

I went to drop something else into the dumpster this morning. I opened the lid and saw nothing but a gaping empty bin. The persimmons were gone.

Virtual superficiality

After countless months of being single and hearing the online dating adventures of two of my attractive, intelligent girlfriends, I decided to sign up on one of those dating websites. Upon doing so, I was suddenly confronted with how utterly superficial online dating can be.

It first asked me to write about myself and the guy I look for, and then I fill out a form of nonnegotiable traits—smoking or non, wants kids or not, income, and job type, to name a few. Income isn’t so important to me, but I suppose a minimal level of education is (at least college).

My guy friend was perusing the girls and one girl indicated that her perfect mate must be a lawyer, doctor, banker, or consultant and that he make at least six-figures a year! I suppose I give her credit for being so honest & blunt, but she looked completely shallow. Of course, my guy friend who after seeing her cute smiling picture, was compelled to contact her since he met those two specifications.

Another element of superficiality was the profile picture. The average guy will obviously be average-looking. In my experience though, some guys grow on you. They’re the average looking guys who win you with their wit, charm, and kindness. After a while, you think: “Hey he’s cute…” But on these websites, you are confronted with his picture immediately without getting to know him. Since most guys are average looking, it’s difficult to discern which ones will “grow on you” and which ones won’t. You read their profiles to prod further and they all seem to blend together—“I work hard, play hard. I’m easy-going. I enjoy life, art, fun” etc. etc.

And some guys are just, quite honestly, below average looking. I firmly believe that physical attraction is an important element of a relationship. If you are physically repulsed by someone, chances are you are not going to have a great relationship. (At least this is what I tell myself to justify my superficiality when I eliminate them.)

I’ve been on the other end, certainly. A couple times I’d see an appealing profile of a guy—we’d have stuff in common, he’d be cute—and then I’d read he only dates women of race X (and I am race Y). My response was usually, “Oh…okay.” Many guys have looked at my profile and declined to contact me. So it goes both ways.

It’s so surreal, to sort guys by age and demographics like they’re all a bunch of disposable computer files. Such an artificial dating environment. As for whether or not this works, I have no idea. We'll see.

Too PC

I'm forcing myself to read "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." My friend gave me a hard cover version of the novel and insisted that I read it. So I dutifully begin reading it even though I'm well past the age of its intended audience. I then encounter a rather interesting comment on the first page of the prologue. The novel casually mentions how in Korea, "people sometimes eat dogs."

Yes, I'm aware that I am perhaps too prone to the hyper-PC, liberal, knee-jerk reaction.

I can think of two other occasions when I've encountered first-hand various references to Asians eating dogs (excluding TV & movies).

One was when my family and I were vacationing in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. There was a Christmas show we were watching, where there were songs, dance routines, and skits. Among the skits was a particular comedian who mocked Mexicans (not Hispanics, just Mexicans), blacks, and of course, Asians. With respect to Asians, the very original and profound comedian mentioned an "oriental cookbook: How to wok [walk] a dog." Get it? The white folk sitting near my family laughed uncomfortably, my immigrant parents didn't get it, and so I could only shoot a look to my brother who gave me the same look of disbelief.

The second time was when I was scanning documents in a cubicle at a New York law firm. The secretary on the other side of the cubicle wall was chatting with an attorney. The attorney was mentioning how her sister was going to do the Peace Corps in China. As the attorney walked away from the secretary's desk, the secretary blurted out, "Just make sure she doesn't eat dog!" to which the attorney laughed and suddenly spotted me, the conspicuously Asian girl hidden behind the cubicle wall.

Am I being hypersensitive? Perhaps. I should be grateful that I'm not being called chink, gook, ching chong on a daily basis; that I'm not beaten or raped because I'm oriental; that I have the same rights as a white American. Perhaps that should be enough for me. But for some reason, it isn't.

Nonetheless, I continue to read "The Sisterhood." After all, the friend who highly recommended it to me is herself Korean. And if I were immobilized with dismay every time I encountered some remotely racial stereotype, I'd never get anything done.

Bob's Theorem

I was having a pleasant dinner with one of my high school friends who happens to be married. She was telling me about a male co-worker--let's call him Bob. She and Bob were pretty cool. Once in a while, they'd have lunch, grab a drink after work, or even have an occasional dinner. All the while, she openly spoke about her husband, wore her wedding ring & band, and gave no indication of anything other than friendship.

When my friend happened to mention Bob to her husband, he responded, "Bob wants you."

"What are you talking about?" she asked her hubby incredulously.

"Bob wants you. It's so obvious."

"He knows I'm married and we never flirt. We are so platonic."

"Look, no guy would ever pay that much attention to you unless he wanted to get with you, wedding ring notwithstanding."

"I don't believe it," my friend continued.

"Any guy who is friends with a girl is only friends with her because in the back of his mind, he is attracted to her and wants her."

She was shocked by this, and refused to believe her husband...That is, until one particular evening with Bob. She and Bob were having after-work drinks and as usual, had a pretty good time. Bob was driving her home when he asked her about her marriage.

"Oh, I love my hubby," she replied.

"Cool," Bob said. "So you're happy with him?"

"Yes, of course," she replied.

"So it's not like, you'd ever hook up with anyone else right?"

"No way, I'm married," she responded.

"Oh okay. Cool," Bob said casually.

That was the last time she and Bob ever hung out. He stopped dropping by her cubicle and never asked her to lunch, drinks, or dinner again. She was now a believer.

So my friend was telling me this entire story over dinner. But I couldn't believe it. "Guys and girls CAN be friends," I urged.

She pressed further, "I'm not saying every guy you're friends with wants to get with you. I'm saying that on some level, they're minimally attracted to you and probably wouldn't mind if you suddently decided to bust a move on them."

"What?! Sick!!" I retorted, thinking of all my platonic brotherly guy friends.

"It's true... I believe it."

"Well if that's the case, then ugly girls would never have guy friends."

"They don't," she stated perfunctorily. "Think about it."

I thought about it. I knew there had to be some homely girl out there who had guy friends. But I didn't even know any ugly girls, let alone ugly girls with guy friends.

I may not have much faith in men, but I'm not so jaded as to believe that a guy would refuse to be friends with a girl simply because she was unattractive.

Illogical behavior

I am a rational, intelligent, educated human being. Why is it that, when confronted with another human being who happens to possess certain random genetic traits (in this case, tall, dark, and handsome), I am reduced to a sputtering, awkward, neurotic girl?

It makes no sense.

10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong

(A post from the "best of craigslist")

01) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.

02) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

03) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

04) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.

05) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.

06) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.

07) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

08) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

09) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.


Re-post this if you believe love makes a marriage.

My language

I was on the phone with my aunt earlier today. She was speaking in her native tongue when I interrupted her a few times to say "What?" She then berated me for knowing so little of my native language. I suppose I have a bit of guilt for being so "white-washed" and not being fluent in my ethnic language, despite going to Saturday school as a kid to learn the language and taking four semesters of it in college.

I suppose this is the cliched plight of the Asian American: being "too white."

Sunday (a.k.a. The Sabbath)

Church was not so bad today. The sermon consisted of the usual platitudes and entreaties to look to the Bible for the answers to all problems. The pastor also openly stated he was an ex-con and former drug dealer. Was that supposed to impress us or give him more street cred? Don't know. At any rate, I neglected to mention this to my mother.

On a separate note, I heard the #1 place women go to meet men is church. Sick.

RANT

My mother “threatened” that she would do something if I didn’t go to church. It wasn’t murder or a beat-down or anything so crass. It was much more manipulative, like “I will never speak to you again” or something to that effect.

I always believed that an effective way of converting people to your ideology was to threaten them. Obviously, history and all religious texts reveal that threats are the best way to persuade the listener to believe and adopt your faith.

When I began reasoning with my mother, I asked her to pore over the Bible and cite to me instances of Jesus holding a knife to a disciple’s throat and saying “convert or die.” She did not listen to me. She simply said “I must get you to go to church at all costs.” I began citing Stalin, Hitler, Castro, the Chinese “Cultural Revolution,” etc. and her ever-so-persuasive response was “You MUST go to church! I don’t care.”

Strangely, this is the same kind of hell-bent reasoning used by fundamentalists, terrorists, and dictators. Does it work? Does it earn respect and love? I asked my mom this and she emitted a desperate “No” before reiterating that I “must” go to church.

So her offer was this: I must go to church 5 or 6 times and that’s it. Otherwise, she will carry out her threat.

I know a lot of people would say, “Who cares? Do it.” First, I despise and detest the fact that I am succumbing to someone else’s will against my own under a threat (i.e. “The terrorists win.”). Second, I feel very strongly about religion. I went to church for the first 20 years of my life -- I’d say that was “giving it a shot.” I studied Christianity in college. I wasn’t a simple churchgoer—I studied the Bible both religiously and academically. I do respect other people’s right to believe in whatever they want. I just know that for myself, I have investigated faith and religion and am consequently a staunch agnostic.

Now obviously, I understand how shitty it would feel to be in heaven and see your only daughter burning in hell. And, her obsession with my going to church is perhaps exacerbated by the fact that my dad began attending church six months before he died after dissing it for over sixty years. My mom believes that she “saved” my dad before he died and now she must save me before I die.

I get it. I really do.

But I don’t think God, Jesus, nor the Holy Spirit espoused the evangelistic method of threatening people to go to church.

A couple of my friends told me to just do it to appease my mom. She can die at peace knowing she tried converting me. Plus, it's the nice daughterly thing to do -- give in to manipulation and threats. So I grudgingly am going to attend church this Sunday. But I could try to make this interesting. Not sure if should try to convert everyone to agnosticism or start making people feel stupid because the only verse they know is John 3:16. Who knows? I may even have fun.

The plight of the beautiful wife

A woman asked a random class of businessmen in Tokyo what the ideal traits of a girlfriend were. Beauty was at the top of the list, followed by intelligence and sense of humor. When asked to identify the ideal traits of a wife, the same men responded “healthy body,” “good child-bearer,” “good with children,” and “good at housekeeping.” Beauty, intelligence, and sense of humor were at the bottom. One businessman explained: “If you had a beautiful, sexy wife, you’d be in trouble. You’d be chasing off other men all the time.” The lyrics of that song inevitably came to mind: “If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, Never make a pretty woman your wife.”

Strange, I assumed that all men everywhere wanted to marry the most beautiful woman they could “get,” with each culture having its own idea of beauty. A male friend bluntly informed me that he would have to marry a beautiful woman because he was “butt ugly” and needed the beauty genes to counteract his butt ugly genes so his children would be remotely presentable. (Strangest argument I heard in favor of marrying a hot chick.) Another male friend informed me that he wanted to be with a woman who was slightly more attractive than he was, but not too much more attractive.

I suppose certain men have some kind of insecurity — that they won’t be “enough” to keep their wife happy, that any woman, given the ample opportunity, will cheat on her husband. If a married woman is hit on 100 times a day every day, then at some point, her marital fidelity will buckle.

Perhaps I am a naïve romantic, but I’d like to think a woman who marries a man does so for love, and if she loves a man and marries him accordingly, then she won’t even think about cheating on him. A billion guys could pursue her, but all of them fail on the account that they are not the one man she loves: her husband.

(Source of quote: “Women of the Pleasure Quarters,” by Lesley Downer.)

An immodest workout

As she did her usual treadmill routine at the gym tonight, she noticed something peculiar: She was the only female jogging in a regular t-shirt and shorts. The rest of the girls on the treadmills were trotting in just their sports bras and spandex biker shorts. It was perhaps ironic then that she was self-conscious about her modesty.

She supposed it may be more comfortable to go jogging in the least amount of clothing as possible. It's less restrictive, and a 5 mile jog can be quite a workout, so one wants to cool off as much as possible. She suspected that several women were thinking that they had the right to flaunt what they rightfully earned through hard work. And perhaps others felt validated knowing that men and lesbians were ogling them.

That kind of self-confidence was so foreign to her. And so she did a little experiment.

She jogged and jogged. When the last jogger left the last treadmill, she looked around to see if anyone was left in the treadmill corridor. No one stretching. No one warming up. She continued to jog and slowly grabbed the edge of her cotton shirt and rolled it up, exposing an immodest amount of flesh. She grabbed the other edge of the shirt and rolled it up, making an equal display of immodesty. And she jogged. She looked to the side to see her reflection on the wall mirror.

Looking back at her was a smug girl jogging with two shamelessly rolled up sleeves. And she looked good.

The art of defriending, part 2

The saga continues between A and B:

Day 1: B called. A screened. B left a voicemail message asking A to call B back. A did not return B's call.

Day 2: B called. A screened.

Day 3: B called. A screened.

Day 4: B called. A screened. B left another voicemail asking A to call B back. A did not return B's call.

A is getting very scared.

The art of defriending

How does one defriend? Suppose there are two people, A and B. A and B get along as acquaintances. A's ideal friendship with B is maybe a phone conversation once a month. B's ideal friendship with A consists of hourly emails, nightly phone conversations lasting 2-3 hours, and frequent visits. How should A deal with it? So far, A has entertained two possible solutions:

Solution One: Screen B's phone calls, returning fewer and fewer calls as time goes on. B should get the hint and accordingly lessen his expectations of A.

Problem: B may not get the hint. B assumes A is just really busy. B resorts to certain tactics to get A to call B back, such as "Please call me ASAP--I have to talk to you about something!" or the like. Passive aggression doesn't bode well with those who don't get the hint--or won't get the hint.

Solution Two: Tell B that B is annoying and kindly request B to stop calling.

Problem: Painful politeness may render A physically unable to utter the words, "Look B, you're annoying me. Please stop calling me." A further risks burning bridges with B. B may badmouth A to A's friends, colleagues, and the papers. Does anyone ever want to create more enemies and/or be known as The Bitch? Then again, B may stop calling.

Right now, A isn't sure how to proceed, but A thinks A will begin with Solution 1 and then proceed to Solution 2. Any other suggested solutions would be greatly appreciated...by A.

Perfect

I am listening to Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor through my shitty 1996 computer speakers. If the piece were a man, I'd marry him. It's perfect: Whimsical, romantic, sappy, frantic, silly, brooding, deep, and moving. If there's the perfect song, then there must be a perfect love. Right?

Ah, singledom

As I get older, my single status becomes more salient to me. Granted, it hasn't reached that Sex-and-the-City stage where thirty-something single women are branded as lepers by condescending married people; but I've noticed I've received more questions about my status. For example, there is the popular question, "Why don't you have a boyfriend?" One male friend posed this question to me after observing that my other girlfriends were either married or attached. "Because I'm...picky?" I offered. A more blunt girl asked me, "Don't you feel lonely without a boyfriend?" and further, "Wouldn't you rather be with someone than be alone?"

Many women may choose to be offended by such probing questions. (Indeed, I was a little curt when responding to the above girl.) Yet I urge these women to take such questions as compliments. How? one may ask. Well, imagine a woman who physically resembles a walrus and has the personality of a rock. My guess is that very few people would ask her, "Why don't you have a boyfriend?" because the answer is obvious: She is unattractive. (My apologies to any women out there who bear that resemblance and personality.) However, when one beholds an intelligent, beautiful, charming woman, one may wonder why this woman has not yet been snatched up by now and so pose the question.

So you see, whenever someone asks me why the hell am I still single, why aren't I married, or why don't I have a boyfriend, I secretly interpet it as, "Damn girl, you are so hot and fine and smart and cool. You could have any guy you want so what gives?"

And the answer is quite simple: I am all that, and therefore I don't settle.

Asian eyes

I was re-reading Memoirs of a Geisha for an "assignment" and reflected upon the fact that Chiyo/Sayuri had gray-blue eyes. It sounded so odd, but then I realized that a number of Asians have been known to have similarly non-brown eyes. My Indian friend's grandmother had blue eyes (and no, she was not mixed with English blood). My first real boyfriend, a Korean guy, had hazel eyes. And even my mother has amber eyes, with an odd greenish-gray ring surrounding her iris. She told me that when she was growing up in her native country, the other children would tease her, poking fun at her unusual, large, light-colored eyes.

But me, I have the plain old brown eyes. Many times I've looked in the mirror to search for a hint of light brown or a fleck of gold, but nothing. Just a deep pool of dark brown.

A family vacation

In the dream, the family was whole again. Father was alive and somehow survived the burial. When asked how he survived his blood being replaced with formaldehyde, he replied it didn't bother him that much. Then in the dream, she recalled that formaldehyde didn't bother her that much either and supposed it was a genetic predisposition.

They were on one of their family vacations, the ones they used to take when the children were young, and were lodging in a wood cabin. It all seemed so normal and real. Even hours after waking up, it still feels like it really happened and rests in her mind like a real memory.

The Friend

As she made her way through the room, she brushed against wool jackets and dark blouses. There were plastered smiles, nodding heads, and glances around the room for the next target. Mouths flapped endlessly, emitting peculiar yet well-articulated noise. These noises were followed by exchanged ivory business cards and gripped handshakes. She scanned the room, and once spotting her only friend, walked up to the gentleman in black and white.

"Jack on the rocks, please," she said.

The Enabler

Irving was an irritating man. He spoke in an overenunciated, strident voice and had the less than charming habit of gesticulating unnecessarily. He always placed his feet on the table when speaking and invariably tilted his head to the left, except to pick the wax out of his ear.

She nonetheless felt obligated to endure Irving's oddness because he had once done something really really nice for her. The only way she could repay him was to be his "friend." By "friend," she meant listening to his diatribes, nodding, and spurting back the same to him.

She watched him pick something from his scalp (a piece of lint? a chunk of dandruff? a nit?), examine it curiously for a good three seconds, and flick it off to the right, all the while delivering his latest spiel on women.

"Women," he gasped, "Women play so many games."

She looked at Irving. "A woman who is nice to you but doesn't want to sleep with you is not playing games."

He was staring at a woman who had just come in. "What?" he asked turning back to her.

"Nevermind," she said and looked out the window. A bird teetered on an uneven branch before fluttering away. She wondered why he even liked being friends with her. She was cynical, visibly repulsed by him, and unsympathetic to his plight. In other words, a really bad friend.

The door of the coffee shop yawned at her.

"Tired?" he asked her.

"No just," she said covering her mouth, "bored. I'm gonna go home."

"Okay I'll call you tonight," Irving said eagerly.

"Fine," she said as she put her purse on her shoulder. "Bye."

"Bye!" he said to her back.

She shivered one last time before she stepped outside the doorway and turned on her cell phone.

Punctuated emails

Two types of email styles bemuse me:

There is the one with all the exclamation points! Every sentence ends with at least one! Sometimes more!!!! Then if something really exciting happens, there is usually at least a whole line of them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then there is the one with the ellipses... Every thought...seems to trail...into something else... You never know... what is going to happen... and then..........it just ends...sort of...

I suppose everyone has once in a while engaged in one or both of these styles. Myself...included!!

The booty hump

I went dancing this past weekend. I was amused by how some girls thought that several awkward thrusts of the pelvis rendered them sexy and desirable. They would hump a fellow girlfriend or chair, look around, and smile expectedly, beaming with desperate validation. Add to that several layers of make-up and a glittery barely-there haltertop, and you almost have some semblance of a woman.

Of course, there is a time and place for the booty hump. A carefully calculated booty hump can have the desired effect of, well, looking desirable. Sticking out one's butt continuously is insufficient. A booty hump ought to beckon and allure, but not leave onlookers with the feeling that they are watching an audition for Britney-Spear wannabe rejects. To successfully execute the BH, one must have a way about herself, an air of confidence, self-assured beauty, and of course, the ability to dance.

Ways to make a good first impression

I'm always amazed at how oblivious some people are when it comes to common sense manners. For example, when meeting someone for the first time, visibly grimacing at the large mole on their face is probably not appropriate. Neither is pointing out someone's stutter. I thought I had mastered these basic, common sense rules of decorum, yet a recent event had proved otherwise.

Today I met a business associate for the first time and was trying so hard to be the smart, poised yet easy-going girl. At the end of our meeting, the person walked me to the elevator. The elevator arrived and I started inching towards it while smiling and nodding, and spurted out "Nice meeting you!" before hopping in. For the next few hours I cockily thought I made a relatively good first impression.

Then I realized my faux pas: I forgot to shake the person's hand.

I am literally mortified by my behavior. It's one of those things where you have recurring flashbacks of your idiocy and you want to smack your forehead and yell out "Idiot!" but you don't because that would be really weird.

I know it's not as bad as laughing and pointing at the disabled, but still. I should've known better.

I guess all Asians do look the same.

http://www.alllooksame.com/

I scored 12 out of 18.

It's harder to distinguish the Koreans from the Japanese than to discern the Chinese. I still think I'm pretty good though.

Thursday

Some nice things I saw today:
- A boy in a yellow hooded sweatshirt with very long dark eyelashes
- A white cat laying by a screen window, gazing lazily at the subway I was in
- My dad's furry hat

Some not nice things I saw today:
- A greasy head speckled with dandruff as it leaned precariously back as I sat in the subway
- An email from a friend calling me out on my inadvertent act of assholeness
- My reflection in really bad lighting where I looked 100 years old

All in all, an average Thursday.

I passed the Bar exam!

So happy & relieved. Looks like relentless cramming and nauseating anxiety can pay off.

Rambling dream interpretation

So I’m thinking about my dream below. I suspect it has something to do with my recent curiosity about dating Asian men (elements of the dream being the Chinese dude, the white rice, the kiss). I’ve dated Asian dudes before but not for several years and have since dated white guys. I am a little sensitive & self-conscious about that Asian-girl/white-guy stereotype, thanks to my Asian American studies class so many years ago.

At the same time, it’s not about race or color, but whom one is attracted to, right? Maybe it’s just a coincidence that I haven’t been attracted to any Asian guys in the last several years.

Maybe the dream meant I shouldn’t feel like I ought to date Asians just because I’m Asian and haven’t recently. The kiss probably symbolized that courtship; the white rice in the kiss symbolized the cultural commonality I perceive among all Asians, a commonality I feel I ought to tap into. Yet such obligatory thinking can lead to a forced, artificial courtship, as symbolized by the grossness of spitting out rice during/after kissing.

I think.

Weird dream

Last night I had the oddest dream. Not sure what it means, but I was in a crowded classroom. I remember sitting next to a bespectacled, average-looking Asian guy. Then (some parts of the dream are hazy) I was going about my day when I encountered the guy (whom I believe to be Chinese. Why not Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, etc.? I don't know). Then he just grabbed me and kissed me, which I permitted somewhat willingly.

The bizarre part: every time he kissed me, white rice would come out of his mouth into my mouth and I'd have to spit it out every time we kissed. He didn't seem to notice it at all, but it was cumbersome to kiss. I remember at some other point when we kissed, I scooped a wad of wet rice out of my mouth with my hand, held it in front of him, and said something like, "This is not good during kissing. Don't do this." And I don't remember the rest. Something with a bicycle, maybe.

A diatribe

I tried really hard not to make my blog one of those political commentary blogs. I am not jumping on the bash-Bush-bandwagon. But I must make a comment.

A minister recently said in Katrina’s wake of devastation, New Orleans had been a sin-filled city. Somehow, they deserved what they got.

I understand that not all ministers are dumbass idiots, that many are intelligent, kind, and true to their belief. If the dumbass minister actually read the Bible, he would have read that God *promised* in Genesis 9:11 (New International Version): “Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.” (In case the reader does not know, this promise was made with Man after the great flood with Noah & company. And God flooded the earth b/c he was pissed at man’s evil and debauchery.)

It really scares me how certain ministers manipulate the Bible to carry out their misguided agendas. The comment just brought back memories of my childhood. I admit I used to be one of those hardcore Bible-thumpers. I used to go to Bible study three times a week, attend service twice on Sundays, and sang in a praise band. I came in second place in a sermon contest and did not place first only because I neglected to start my sermon with a prayer. I studied the Bible religiously. And yes, that lame pun was intended.

I remember in high school, I attended a particular church. The pastor always spoke of increasing attendance and how we failed in not bringing in more and more people. Each sermon would start out with the reading of a verse, say, the famous John 3:16, and then invariably veer to the subject of church growth. I realized that if I wanted to grow as a Christian, I would have to change churches. So I decided to have a talk with the pastor.

We sat at a faux wooden table and I told him how I didn’t feel I was growing, that he always neglected to discuss the verse listed in our weekly program, and that his constant berating was tiresome. He responded that there was a purpose to his sermons and politely objected to my leaving the church. Then he said how sometimes, the devil fills our heads with ideas.

The devil. It makes me laugh to this day.

Surprisingly yet not surprisingly, the following Sunday, though the verse in our program was about love or something, the pastor spoke of the DEVIL and how the devil tricks us with ideas and makes us think evil satanic things. The pastor unabashedly looked at me throughout his sermon. At least he didn’t talk about church growth again.

[This of course wasn’t the reason I departed from Christianity. I won’t delve into it now, but I studied a good deal of religion and philosophy in college and became the clichéd enlightened agnostic.]

Again, there are so many wonderful Christians out there, Mother Theresa a prime example. I know that Klansmen, Nazis, reactionaries, and child molesters are probably not the intended paragons of Christianity. Still, it is an insult to both secular people and true Christians for these ministers to purport to know God and instead spew this ignorant, hateful nonsense. If there is a devil, they're it.

A reminder

I think about my dad from time to time. Tonight I sorted through a box of items. Among the colorful bags of miscellaneous items was a red plastic bag of hats. I opened it and retrieved the one I wanted, a furry abomination of couture. It was what he wore, ridiculousness notwithstanding. It still felt cool underneath my fingers and felt so light. I placed it on my desk, next to the speaker of my computer. I’m not really sure why.

Maybe seeing it will remind me of what I want to be. Resilient. Persevering. Unfaltering. Never doubting oneself. Never afraid. Maybe it will remind me to appreciate what I do have, that I am alive, and that I have so much. Or maybe it will just remind me.

A likely target

There is just something about me. Maybe it’s my race, my height, my hair length, my narrow eyes, or the way I carry myself that just screams “PICKPOCKET ME!” For the second time in less than 2 months, I have been pickpocketed in this large city. The culprit reached into my purse, took out my wallet, took out my debit card and credit card, and returned the wallet to my purse with the CASH STILL REMAINING. Why return the wallet at all? Why not take the wallet altogether, with the cash?

I am beyond frustration and fury. It’s so ridiculous and farcical that it was funny and now it isn’t anymore. If that makes any sense.

So all vertically-challenged Asian twenty-something women beware—you are the target of pickpockets. Even if you are completely frumped out in raggedy sweats.

O the Orange

Once upon a time, there an unremarkable orange named O. O recently went to a party. It was a party of apples, and O was the only orange. The apples mingled amongst each other in their shades of golden green and scarlet, while O awkwardly stood in the corner, holding a red plastic cup of booze. At one point, a light green apple and a golden apple rolled up to O to discuss apple life. When O said, “I'm an orange,” the apples looked at each other and politely nodded their stems at O. “That’s cool,” they replied in unison as they perused the room for the nearest tactful social exit.

As O passed through the crowd, the apples talked of nothing but apple life. Apple skin, apple core, apple texture. O overheard the following conversation:

“My god, how do you get your apple skin so shiny?”
“Why thank you, I use the most premium ultimate mega high-end first class buffer.”
“You must tell me who buffs your skin. It’s simply fabulous.”
“I will I will. I also found the most brilliant stem trimmer, but I am quite tired of his daily life musings.”
“Oh dear, time to cut the stem and move on!”
“Indeed.”

O also observed a phenomenon called the “brag-complaint.” The apples discussed the toils of apple life; yet though a complaint in form, their utterances were a brag in substance. Two red apples conversed vehemently:

“Yesterday I had to roll 5 times on the hill.”
“Wow, five times? I had to roll 4 times but that was on a weekend.”
“No way, you had to roll on a weekend?”
“Totally.”

Interspersed among these brag-complaints were loud sighs, raised stems of utter agony, and curious expressions of expected pity. Each apple was an oblong microcosm of elite martyrdom.

O, the sole orange, rolled out of the apple party early, feeling small and so…orange. Not only orange, but very un-apple. O knew it did not want to be an apple, yet the apples’ smug superiority over all non-apples was infectious.

If only O could find another orange, a perfectly orange orange, O would be so happy. Until then, O had to settle for an ordinary life...among apples.

My "disorder"

Today I was feeling desolate, miserable, and useless. Why the funk? I attributed it to just one of my moods. It never occurred to me that my funk was related to the fact that today was my third day away from my bittersweet addiction, Starbucks coffee. Yes, I expected the headaches, the sluggishness, and the propensity to fall asleep at odd hours during the day. But some studies reveal that caffeine withdrawal may qualify as an actual disorder (See Is Caffeine Withdrawal a Mental Disorder?, Caffeine Withdrawal Recognized as a Disorder). Both of these articles note that that some of the symptoms of withdrawal include depression and irritability. As if the mind-numbing headaches and general obliteration of productivity weren’t bad enough.

Yet part of me suspects I’m not really quitting my addiction for the usual reasons such as health, the high cost of the habit, or even the selfish desire to “preserve” the effectiveness of caffeine for when I “really need it.”

I think a part of me is just really bored.

Ah, friends

It has come to her attention that she has very little in common with a certain friend, a person she has known for a number of years. It is strange how two people, who have wildly different views on work, relationships, and life, could maintain a barely existent friendship for as long as they could. She suspects that for a while, she “coasted” the friendship, allowing the friend to be himself while unconsciously censoring herself.

She became aware of this when they were hanging out quite recently. The friend remarked on a particular issue (say, homosexuality) that directly countered her view. It then struck her that on more than one occasion, the friend will utter a semi-sexist, semi-racist, or semi-ignorant comment. Moreover, the comments were usually abrasive and obnoxious, as if there were no room for other points of views.

Needless to say, she was beginning to get annoyed. And that irritation became the wonderful epiphany she so needed.

Now that she has acknowledged this predicament, she is not sure how she ought to proceed. It seems simple: “Be yourself.” Indeed, being herself + friend’s being friend’s self will probably result in numerous bitch-slaps.

Ah well, time to get the brass knuckles.

Pro Pick'em

She got a lot of NFL picks wrong today, probably her worst ever (since last year). Yet today was one of the few instances in her life she was content to be wrong: New Orleans' victory over Carolina. Clearly the underdog and just by three points, the Saints prevailed.

She (along with probably ten thousand other sports pundits) couldn't help but see the victory as perhaps a metaphor of the city's dauntless resilience and unconquerable spirit.

A phone call

She just had one of those phone conversations where she was supposed to sound professional, poised, and intelligent. Instead she stammered, yammered, and sputtered various fragments, run-on sentences, unintelligible combinations of verbs and nouns, and sentences that ended either in a preposition or "so yeah."

After hanging up the phone, all she could think was "idiotidiotidiotidiotidiot."

The man on the subway

There was a man on the train today who caught her attention. He wore a plaid short-sleeve dressshirt and slacks, and was clasping onto a black suitcase. She watched him roll his suitcase carefully and balance himself against the subway pole. He was Asian, even from behind she could tell. There was a familiarity in his stiff gait, the way he stood, even the way he turned his head to look out the window.

The man resembled her father. There was the gray hair, which wasn't quite as gray as her father's, and the large obtrusive glasses. All of it was enough to evoke the memory of someone she hadn't seen in several months.

She thought of the last time she saw him. Not on a subway car, not rolling a suitcase, but in a large room with organ music in the background. He was wearing his glasses then, but his eyes were closed. The memory seemed unreal as if from a passage in a novel, or a scene in a movie. It was something she consciously hadn't thought of in a few months. But the man in the button-up shirt standing patiently by the subway door reminded her of what her father wasn't. And she became sad.

Eek

Yellow Gal has discovered that Yellow Mom blogs on blogspot.com as well. Neither knows the other's blog. Yellow Gal hopes it stays that way.

A possible battle

The other day, Yellow Gal was talking to Friend about her volunteering at a domestic violence shelter that caters to a certain ethnic community. Then Friend joked about the stereotype that this ethnicity is a bunch of wife-beaters and laughed. Yellow Gal is aware of the stereotype and admits there is some truth to it. Nonetheless, she felt slightly offended.

Yellow Gal understands there are some limits to political correctness. George Carlin once was able to joke about rape in a routine -- and pulled it off. Yet for some reason, Friend's joke about domestic violence in an ethnic community seemed to strike Yellow Gal as not cool.

She thought about talking to Friend about the offensiveness of the comment, but wondered if she ought to pick and choose her battles. Correcting every racist, sexist, homophobic, or otherwise ignorant individual is indeed a lofty goal.

Oh, Craig

Yellow Gal can always manage to find hilarity in the oddest places. She recently tapped into a new source of amusement: craigslist.org. She was perusing the personal ads and noticed how many self-described geniuses/supermodels there were. Where are all these intelligent and attractive people in the Big Big City? Maybe only brilliant, gorgeous people are drawn to the anonymity of craigslist.

One charming post was entitled: "1 NIGHT STAND." The post was as follows:

CUT TO THE CHASE ....I LOOKING TO GO OUT GET DRUNK AND GET LAID ...I'M TIRED OF CHASEING WOMEN AROUND IN BARS BUYING DRINKS AND GOING HOME ALONE ..I'M A NICE ,FUNNY AND CLEAN GUY.I JUST WANT A NIGHT OF FUN WITHOUT ALL THE HASSLE....SO IF YOUR IN THE SAME BOAT AS ME DROP ME A LINE ....PIC FOR PIC....THANK YOU AND HAPPY FRIDAY

The guy gets credit for directness.

The seat not taken

There are many reasons for not sitting next to someone on the subway. Sometimes it is simply more desirable to stand and lean against a greasy warm steel pole than sit down. It may be the puddle of urine or vomit on the seat. But in most cases, it's the person sitting next to the empty seat.

The person may be asleep, his mouth ajar and his body sprawled into the next seat. Perhaps he is physically taking up the second seat with a large bag or right buttocks. Or the puddle of drool from his lips may just be too unappealing.

So what was Yellow Gal's reason for not sitting in an unoccupied seat the other day? The car was somewhat crowded and people preferred standing rather than sitting in the one unoccupied seat in the car.

Yellow Gal looked at the person sitting next to the empty seat. The woman was young, with long black hair and light brown skin, and was quietly sitting there, legs crossed. She was perhaps one of the most beautiful women Yellow Gal had ever seen.

Yet for some reason, sitting next to the woman seemed as daunting as sitting next to a man with a live snake. Yellow Gal could understand why men would be intimidated, but why Yellow Gal, a hetero chick? It wasn't a competition thing because there was no contest, this gorgeous woman was model-like.

And so Yellow Gal did not take the seat and instead stood, clasping onto a bacteria-infested pole. Perhaps all anomalies--both disgusting and beautiful--affect people the same way. At least on the subway.

Make it stop

There is perpetual dull ache that never seems to subside. It is there when she opens her eyes in the morning and there as she falls asleep at night. It is palpable every second of every hour of every day.

No it's not angst or depression. It's caffeine withdrawal.

Yellow Gal is trying to wean herself off of her Starbucks addiction. But it hurts. It hurts so much.

Listmania

Yellow Gal just came back from a not-good date. It wasn't "bad" b/c no plates were broken, no tears were shed, and no one was slapped. However it was a very enlightening experience, one that inspires Yellow Gal to indulge in more lists.

Some things a guy should not do on a first date (i.e., ways to ensure no second date):

1) Make a phone call on one's cell phone during the meal.
2) Talk to other people for extremely long periods of time without acknowledging the date nor introducing her.
3) Push gooey food onto the fork with one's fingers and hold the food onto the fork until one slurps it all into one's mouth.
4) Talk about one's dog's case of the runs and methods of getting rid of dog-runs. At least wait until the meal is over.

Some things a girl ought not do on a first date (i.e., ways to ensure no second date):

1) Yawn visibly and audibly.
2) Avoid all eye contact and instead appear to be mesmerized by the nearest wall.
3) Respond to everything with "uh huh" and "wow, really?" Then look back at the wall.
4) Refrain from initiating any conversation. Remain mute and appear slightly afraid.

Yellow Gal has added to her dating arsenal a seemingly fail-safe way to ensure no requests for a second date. The Quest for Mr. Right continues...

On picking up women

Below are some things men should NOT do when attempting to pick up women. In no particular order, they are:

1) Reciting one's resume. A list of one's Ivy League bachelor/masters/doctorate degrees is both unimpressive and sleep-inducing.

2) Discussing at length all the lives one has saved, the salary one earns, or the car one drives. Self-adulation is seldom arousing.

3) Continuing to try to kiss or grope her after she has repeatedly said "no." She is not being coy or playing hard to get. She really does not want to be kissed or groped.

4) Insinuating in any way of having sex with her, especially that night.

5) Focusing the entire conversation on one's greatness while ignoring the woman, except to wink at her or call her "baby." The benefit of reciting one's vast accomplishments in life does NOT outweigh the benefit of engaging the woman in a conversation and getting to know her.

6) Calling her phone five to six times within 24 hours of receiving her phone number.

7) Trying to guilt her into dating you by begging, self-deprecation, or calling her a stuck-up bitch. Newsflash: Manipulating or emotionally blackmailing a woman to date you = Pathetic. Moreover, this encourages an uninterested woman to string the man along rather than being honest and forthright.

.... There are many more, but these seven are particularly salient in Yellow Gal's mind.

(And yes, Yellow Gal acknowledges that gals can be just as nutty and silly as guys.)

It's that time

One knows it's near that time of the month when one begins to tear up when the people at Starbucks forget her coffee order and everyone else gets their coffee before she does.

Yellow Gal wonders when she will no longer be able to blame her irrational behavior on a cycle rather than her personality.

Back home

Yellow Gal is back in her studio in Big Big City.

It is very silent. There are no Korean soap operas in the background. No rented DVDs of "24." No bickering over who forgot to push the button of the rice pot. No pots clanging or banging screen doors. Just the soft humming of the refridgerator and the occasional siren from the streets below.

Today Yellow Gal left her hometown to return to the BBC. Her home was a house in the suburbs where one is deafened by the chirping of birds in the morning and the chirping of crickets at night. There are moths fluttering by lamps, itching to get past the screen door, sputtering lawnmowers, and barking dogs.

Here though, outside her window, the skyscrapers loom and glitter in the dark. It is a Wednesday night. And it is very quiet, save for the soft pattering of typing on a keyboard.

First Kiss

Yellow Gal remembers her first "real" kiss. It was quite memorable but for all the wrong reasons.

She was at the mall with two girlfriends and him. Girlfriend #1's mom drove up to the curb to pick up the three girls. Before parting, Yellow Gal thought it would be nice to peck him good bye. Not quite a millisecond peck, but perhaps a lingering, tender kiss, like Wesley and Buttercup. After all, they were in public and #1's mom awaited them in a running sedan.

She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and soon felt his warm lips against hers. Suddenly his probing tongue poked through her pursed lips and made itself very comfortable inside her mouth, introducing itself to her molars, the roof of her mouth, and the back of her throat.

It was the longest eight seconds of her life.

When he finally pulled away, she awkwardly smiled a goodbye and hopped into the car. It was their first and last kiss. She broke up with him less than a week later.

The reason Yellow Gal is reliving this arguably traumatizing incident is that she bumped into her First Kiss the other day.

She was walking with her old high school friend in their hometown, when they saw him from a distance. As they neared him, he snapped shut his cell phone and said "hi." He then cheerfully chatted with her friend whilst ignoring Yellow Gal. Yellow Gal suspected that First Kiss was testing to see how long he could chat with Yellow Gal's friend without having to acknowledge Yellow Gal. Finally, Friend couldn't take it anymore and said, "First Kiss, you remember..." and pointed to Yellow Gal, who stood there, smiling expectantly. First Kiss replied, "Yes. Yellow Gal." Then he turned back to Friend and commenced cheerful chatting.

After they parted ways, Friend and Yellow Gal compared notes. Friend guessed the reason for his odd behavior was his "new" physique. His six-pack seemed to have been replaced by a one-gallon. His chiseled cheekbones were now soft and doughy. But everyone gained weight after high school. Moreover, they had dated for a measly week over a decade ago and shared no more than one kiss.

Very strange behavior. Yet altogether, amusing. Does anyone ever forget their first kiss?

Jay Part I

Once upon a time, there was a strange boy. He was the youngest of three children. He was bright and did quite well in school, and grew up to be a very promising, enterprising young man.

Unfortunately, the boy's first true love--his first real relationship--cheated on him. He forgave her, and she cheated on him again. Then she dumped him.

Ever since then, the boy has never quite at ease with his love life. In every subsequent romantic relationship, he feels compelled to monitor what his girlfriend does. And should she do anything resembling any solitary time with another boy, the strange boy becomes very upset and throws an adult version of a temper tantrum. Also, while in any relationship, the strange boy distances himself from all female friends so as to avoid any and all impropriety that arises from having friendships with the opposite sex.

However, when his romantic relationships inevitably fall apart, the boy strangely rekindles his friendships with his female friends.

The pain of his first relationship still palpable, the boy discovers a strange yet potent source of solace: the affection of women. This affection takes two mutually exclusive forms: (1) having a girlfriend, or (2) having a gaggle of female friends with whom he would not mind having sex. This affection is his secret addiction, an intolerable pang that cannot be appeased without the female voice and touch. It is a continual, throbbing ache that pulses through his veins and permeates every fiber of his being.

Right now, he is in form 2. The boy attempts to maintain as many sexually attractive female friends at the same time, a wondrous juggling act, hoping that one of the balls will land in his bed. The balls must be kept separate at all times, so that he does not appear to be superficial or whorish, yet hazily visible to one another to hint how utterly desirable he is and how competitive it is to be juggled.

What will become of the boy? Will he ever find happiness? Will he realize how transparent he is to all the juggled females? Is the utterly meaningless and empty existence a chosen destiny, much like the man who ties his own noose? Or is it a veil soon to be lifted in the not too distant future?

Only time will tell. Until then, the world shall await with bated breath the finale of this boy's story, a manchild who entertains the world and himself with a magnificent charade of love, sex, and addiction.

To be continued...

Potter saves the day

Yellow Gal is slightly embarrassed about her previous two rants. Yet she won't delete them, b/c it's all true damnit. She has been in a bit of a rut lately.

The past few nights, she has been visiting her family in her childhood home. She perused the books in her old room, looking for something to cheer her up. Her collection included: "The Trial," by Kafka, "Life of a Slave Girl," "The Marx-Engels Reader," "Ethan Frome," a few books by James Joyce, and a book about the Japanese internment camps, to name a few.

Not exactly the most cheerful collection.

She was on the phone with a friend, bemoaning her depressing book collection, when he suggested Harry Potter. "Hmm..." she thought as she wandered to her brother's room. The first three volumes sat on his book case in their bright colors. She was just going to take them but decided to seek his permission first.

She began reading the first one last night before going to bed. She was concerned that since she had already seen the movie and had seen/heard/read all the Harry Potter hype, she may not be as entertained.

Which would put her in a worse mood.

But, as many had told her, it was a rather quick read. Even though she knew what was going to happen next, the story still managed to draw her in. A very entertaining read. She hopes to finish all three before she returns to crime-ridden Big Big City on Wednesday.

Yellow Gal finds it very interesting yet so true: a good book, no matter the intended age of the reader, will always be a good book.

Defending the fat

It is insidious. It is subtle. But it is unmistakable. Every time Yellow Gal sees a Certain Friend, the Certain Friend invariably remarks on Yellow Gal's weight. It is never as blatant as "You are a fat tub of lard." Yet it is very cleverly hidden in suggestive adjectives, well-crafted sentences, and amused expressions. Certain Friend is perhaps 80-90 pounds, a probable size 0, while Yellow Gal is an obese size 4.

For example, if Yellow Gal stops wearing a certain top, Certain Friend will inquire, "Oh did it get too small for you?" Or if Yellow Gal is wearing the same sweater as a six-foot, 200 pound guy, Certain Friend will ask, "Are you guys wearing the same size?"

Yellow Gal is seeing Certain Friend this weekend. She is almost certain that Certain Friend will make a weight-related comment. Yellow Gal plans on responding to Certain Friend's fat-comment, "It's so interesting how every time I see you, you make some comment about my weight." Then if she's especially irritated, Yellow Gal will add, "I understand that because I am over 100 pounds, I am a tub of lard. Your continual comments to me have clearly conveyed that belief. There is therefore no need to remind me every single time you see me. I get it. Thanks so much for bringing the matter to my attention." Insert the necessary chuckle to alleviate any tension the remarks may induce.

Sound like a plan.

Gratuitous superiority

Yellow Gal hasn't posted in a really long time. In the last few days, she moved from Medium City to Big City, almost became homeless, scrubbed her old apartment at the mercy of a relentlessly clean landlord with a variety of cleaners and sponges (including an industrial cleaner that seared her eyes, skin and throat, and a toothbrush) and was subsequently robbed on the train on the way to the Big City airport. Robbers took Yellow Gal's wallet and proceeded to shop with her Discover Card at various stores, including a jewelry store.

Yellow Gal becomes incensed when other people complain to her about the wrong shade of yellow their post-its are or how their 9 karat diamond is actually 8.9 karats. First, such complaints are empirically, ontologically trivial. Second, they are being insensitive. Third, they make anyone whose problems are bigger than theirs (which is 99.9999% of the world population) feel shittier. It is perhaps akin to someone with a sprained ankle complaining how shitty his life is to a quadriplegic. To the quadriplegic, if a sprained ankled life is shitty, then what is the life of a quadriplegic?

Yet at the same time, Yellow Gal feels smugly superior because these imbeciles will never be able to appreciate what they have nor can they ever be happy because they will always find something to complain about. Yellow Gal, all the while, remains resilient and rolls with the punches. She sits squarely on her high horse and watches as her counterparts wail and flail in their cesspool of self-induced self-pity and hypochondriacal misery.

It is all very amusing. She just hopes she doesn't fall in.

Last night

Yellow Gal had a series of odd dreams, two of which she remembers. The one she believes to be the earlier one was sort of a nightmare, one from which she awoke terrified and in a sweat (she thought that only happened in movies).

She was in her studio apartment, where she lives now, and looked out her peephole. Someone or something very evil was outside her door in the hallway, facing sideways. The evil thing looked like a person, but Yellow Gal could discern no flesh, no skin. There was just a hat and papers and clothing. Yellow Gal was curious about the evil thing and so kept staring, knowing full well that the evil entity would eventually be able to sense her presence. And it did. The evil entity then turned toward Yellow Gal's peephole. She could feel the evil emanating from the entity--an indescribable feeling of horror.

Yellow Gal then started murmuring prayers to God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit (she hadn't been to church since 1997). For a while, the power of good was able to ward off the evil of the entity. But good faded and the entity did not retreat. The entity began to read her mind, know her fears, and use them to torture her.

Yellow Gal then ran into her bathroom, and closed the door, and she feared the entity would enter her apartment and stand right outside her bathroom door. For some odd reason, there was a hose and a faucet in the middle of her bathroom. It turned on, and she got soaked. When she called upon the Trinity, she was able to turn it off. She clamped onto the faucet to keep it off, and could feel the power of the evil entity literally turning the faucet wheel on.

Yellow Gal remembers seeing a piece of paper by the sink, and scrawled on it were questions that the entity was asking her. "Do you ever fear ___?" "At night, does it frighten you when ___?" They were specific questions, but Yellow Gal can't remember.

And then Yellow Gal woke up.

The second dream Yellow Gal had was about her father. He was alive, and that whole thing about his death had been a ghastly mistake. They misdiagnosed his death. She saw him walking with her family. She saw him alive. He was alive after all.

But then in her dream, Yellow Gal started thinking. She remembered his funeral, the casket--how could they fake that? How could that be a medical misdiagnosis? She remembered touching his cold hand at his wake, and that certainly couldn't be faked. As soon as the semblance of logic and reality began to unravel the dream, she slipped into another dream.

Ugly guys

Yellow Gal has nothing against ugly guys. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, beauty is only skin deep, it's what's inside that counts, et cetera.

What Yellow Gal finds utterly fascinating is when ugly guys complain about ugly girls. Yellow Gal recalls a day back when she was in school. She is chatting with three guys. Instead of referring to these guys as Ugly Guy #1, Ugly Guy #2, and Normal Guy, Yellow Gal will call them Fatty, Crater Face, and Norm.

Norm is telling the group how he was walking with a cup of coffee in his hands, and he saw a girl so beautiful, he tripped and spilled coffee all over himself. All are amused.

Then Crater Face replies, "Well it certainly wasn't someone in this school because there are no beautiful girls in this school."

Yellow Gal blinks.

Then Fatty chimes in, "Yeah man, there are no hot girls in this school whatsoever."

Then Fatty turns to Yellow Gal, holds up his hand, and, rather than saying "present company excluded," says, "No offense."

Yellow Gal blinks again.

For the next ten minutes, Crater Face and Fatty bemoan the utter dearth of beauty in school, insterspersed with "yeah, man" and "yeah." Yellow Gal looks at Fatty's ample love handles and three chins. She then looks at Crater Face. She stops counting his craters at 283.

Yellow Gal is not prone to conceit or self-flattery. But she knows she is cute, and undoubtedly ten times more attractive than Crater Face and Fatty (if not by virtue of having no craters and no more than one chin). It made her wonder. This is not the first time that utterly repulsive, grotesque abominations of nature have criticized women's appearances. Yellow Gal surmised that this must be the eighth wonder of the world.

She further pondered the logic of Fatty and Crater Face. Suppose that the school were filled with beautiful women resembling Catherine Zeta Jones and Heidi Klum. Do Crater Face and Fatty honestly believe that these women would actually like them, if not for their stunning craters and chins, then for their oh-so charming personalities?

Then she realized, hideously deformed men are people too. Why should they be denied the joys of being superficial and hypocritical?

Validate me please

Yellow Gal was having a telephone conversation with Friend this morning. Friend was asking for "advice" on whether he handled a certain situation correctly. She perfunctorily listened, analyzed, and assured Friend that he certainly handled the situation correctly. Friend paused, and again asked Yellow Gal if there was anything he hadn't thought of, if he had done everything right.

Yellow Gal thought, maybe she wasn't thinking hard enough. So she tried to think of possible conflicts, unforeseen conditions, or ideas that perhaps Friend hadn't thought of. When she mentioned these to Friend, he became confused and slightly annoyed. Yellow Gal was confused as well.

After two hours of going back and forth, Yellow Gal finally figured it out. What Friend really wanted wasn't "advice." Friend really wanted:

(1) to hear someone echo back to him that Friend was right.
Anytime Yellow Gal mentioned anything remotely contrary to his mode of thought or action, Friend would bristle and argue. When Yellow Gal regurgitated his mode of thought and action and completely shed off any independent, incongruous thought, Friend became appeased.

(2) to gloat about the subject-matter of his "request for advice" and be praised.
Friend's situation was certainly a new development. Yellow Gal originally approached his request for advice as just that--a request for advice. Friend seemed to get frustrated and kept repeating his question. When Yellow Gal began to talk about the subject-matter of the situation, gush over how wonderful it all was, and sufficiently "ooh"-ed and "aah"-ed, Friend became appeased.

Yellow Gal wondered, Why did Friend have to resort to this roundabout way of "asking for advice"? It would have saved both Yellow Gal and Friend two hours of confusion and frustration had Friend simply come out and said "Validate me please."

Konichiwa

This is what a random man said to Yellow Gal as she walked by him this afternoon. Random Man's staggering logic led him to believe that if a gal is yellow, she must be Japanese and Japanese-speaking at that. Moreover, saying "konichiwa" at her will somehow render an expected response, such as fluttering her black eyelashes, performing a delicate fan dance, or disrobing her kimono.

Yellow Gal acknowledges the possibility that Random Man genuinely believed that Yellow Gal's native language was Japanese and he wished to communicate with her with a harmless greeting in her native tongue. Yellow Gal however suspects that Random Man would not have said "Konichiwa" to a Yellow Guy. But this is just speculation.

Yellow Gal wonders what all the Random Men of the world expect when, upon seeing yellow gals, they say things like "China doll," "Me so horny," and "Sucky sucky." These men seem to lack the requisite charm to woo yellow gals, spend too much time masturbating to fetishist pornos from the 80s, and/or genuinely enjoy being racially offensive.

Yellow Gal is of course used to all these things. She merely found it amusing if not sad that in 2005 in what is known as a "liberal" town, silly Random Man made a silly random comment.