Still yellow

I know that some white Americans, when they first see me, think "immigrant." That is, until they hear me speak or see the way I carry myself. It is perhaps ironic that when my immigrant relatives or peers see me, they think "white American," precisely because of the way I speak or carry myself. I remember my older cousin express shock when she saw I knew how to use chopsticks. Some immigrant peers were surprised when I mentioned I enjoyed food of my ethnicity. And I constantly amaze my immigrant relatives and peers with my ability to handle foods that have more than one speck of red pepper in it, that I in fact love spicy food and probably can't go a day without having something spicy to eat.

I know I'm "white" but dang, I'm still yellow.

My 2 cents

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

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

Younger Guys

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the question?

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

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

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

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

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

The end of a non-friendship

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

Yep. That's the end of that friendship.

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

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

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

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

An adjustment

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

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

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

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

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

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

Age is just a number

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

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

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

"What?!" I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1982

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

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

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

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

Ahhh!

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

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

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

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

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

Grosser than Gross

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

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

Gross

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

Saved

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

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

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

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

"Call her back?"

"Yeah, to talk to her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good flirt

Fellas,

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

Yep, you're good.

Stupid

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

A suspicion

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

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

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

Being ugly

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

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

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

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

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

That was my first memory of being called ugly.

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

"What'd they say?" I asked.

"It's not good," she muttered.

"What?"

"I feel bad," she said.

"Come on!"

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

I felt my stomach drop. "Uh huh."

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

"And...?"

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

"Okay."

"Are you upset?"

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

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

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

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

A sidewalk day

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

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

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

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

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

Not a scene from a real sitcom

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

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

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

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

"Cool."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," Friend laughs.

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

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

[Looks at Friend who is smiling ear to ear]

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

[Envisions pink jumpsuit with jingle in background]

Nah.

When

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

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

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

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

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

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

My own tabula rasa

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

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

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

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


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

Bleh

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

Bleh.

A girl walks into a bar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Four."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rat part deux

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

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

The rat

There is a dead rat on the sidewalk. It has been there for over a month. At first I thought it was a dirty furry sock with a long thick tapered thread, but I later realized that the sock had eyes, a mouth, and the thread was a grooved tail. The reason I thought it was a sock at first is that it is completely flat. I don't know how it became a two-dimensional rat. It's like some cartoon cat rolled over it with a steamroller.

I've walked by this rat every day. In mild, cold, sunny, cloudy, snowy, and rainy weather, this rat has lain on the sidewalk. And every day, its perpetually opened mouth greets me. No one will clean it up. Perhaps it is because the rat lies exactly on the boundary line between a house's sidewalk and a church's sidewalk. No one seems to want to touch the dirty thing.

I'm thinking of drawing a chalk outline around the rat to bring attention to the rodent corpse (which strangely is taking a really long time to decompose...). Perhaps I will fashion a cross out of twigs and tape it in front of the rat. Or I could cut out a tombstone and write on it, "Here lies a rat. May he rest in peace on this sidewalk forever since no one wants to clean up his corpse."

Of course, the effort I put into thinking about the rat, blogging about the rat, and devising ways of bringing attention to the rat could be put into actually disposing of the rat myself. But I can't. I don't want to touch the dirty thing.

Accidental Vegetarian (or My Ode to Tofu)

I've been living as a vegetarian for the past few days by accident. It just so happens that I haven't eaten meat or fish, and if I didn't need milk with my cereal, I'd be an accidental vegan. At any rate, I don't feel any different or healthier (yeah, it's only been a few days). I've been on this tofu-kick.

I must say, I love tofu. I love it bobbing in my miso soup, gooey in my soon doo boo jigae, glistening under a heat lamp at a Chinese buffet, or just sitting cold and wet in its refridgerated plastic container. I loved it before it became famous for its health benefits, before it became a part of the health craze. When my mom would make her stew for dinner, I'd sort through the veggies and the beef with my chopsticks and go straight for those delicious white squares.

I know people shun tofu in its meat-ified state, e.g., tofurky and tofu-burgers. Why not appreciate it for what it is, rather than making it into something it isn't? As a tofu-lover, I'll be the first to admit that tofu will never taste like a buttery slice of turkey or a juicy steak. Never. And perhaps that's part of why some people think it's disgusting. Perhaps if people tried cuisine that accepted tofu for what it was, that celebrated those little squares of soybean goodness, they'd love it as I do. And oh, I do.

Annie Hall

I recently saw "Annie Hall," the famous film written & directed by Woody Allen. Two points in there that I found amusing with respect to dating:

1) Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) quotes Groucho Marx regarding women who'd be willing to date him: "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member." As unhealthy and dysfunctional as that sounds, sometimes I totally think like that! Like if a guy likes me, I'm like, "Okay, what's going on here? There must be something wrong with him."

2) Alvy and Annie Hall are on their first date and early on the date, Alvy asks for a kiss. She's like, "Huh? What, right now?" And he explains how he doesn't want to worry about it for the rest of the date and during dinner, because the tension will be unbearable by the end of the date, so he just wants to get the first goodnight kiss over with in the beginning. She responds, "Okay sure," and they kiss. Then they get dinner.

Funny movie. I'd be lying though if I said that throughout the movie I didn't once think of Soon Yi.

Catty behavior

Last night, I went to someone's house with a friend to pick up a movie. On the couch was a little mini-cat-couch upon which two plump furry cats snuggled against each other. I couldn't resist. My friend walked up to them and petted them with ease (she is friends with the owner). I walked up to one, whom I will call The Mean One, allowed her to sniff my hand at length, and attempted to pet her head. TMO immediately jerked her head back and just stared at my hand hovering uselessly over her head. I began petting the other cat, whom I will call The Nice One, who looked at my hand slightly alarmed. I let her sniff my hand, and she allowed me to pet her. Then I attempted to pet TMO's back, making no sudden movements, and cooing, at which point it jerked its head towards my hand, mouth agape.

"Uh, TMO almost tried to bite me."

My friend laughed. "Yeah she hates everyone."

We left the apartment, and I mused over TMO's behavior. Most animals like me, as I like to think I exude a gentle kind demeanor (ha). I suppose I felt slightly hurt that TMO didn't like me. I assumed that if you allowed a cat or dog to sniff your hand, that was sort of the "OK" to pet it unless you were evil or something. Then I thought about it more. Suppose some random stranger came up to me, did the equivalent of letting me sniff his hand (i.e. say "Hi, I'm Stranger, nice to meet you"), and then started rubbing my back or head. I suppose I wouldn't like that very much, in fact not at all, even if he was the gentlest, kindest man ever (well unless he was Johnny Depp or equivalent, but moving on...).

So I couldn't blame TMO for being so pissy with me. Either I just need to grow on her, or...she just don't like me.

La Biblioteca

I must be at the lowest of the low. I just borrowed the book from the library, "How to Make Anyone Fall in Love with You," by Leil Lowndes. It was neatly displayed by the library entrance, and I couldn't help but walk over to it, open it, and page through. How the heck can anyone so matter-of-factly declare that one can MAKE someone, ANYONE, fall in love with her? People are people, not manipulable chemicals.

Yet as I paged through the book, I noticed questions in there I myself have pondered. Where are all the good men? Is there such thing as love at first sight? How important is the physical stuff when it comes to true love? blah blah blah. So I relented to my curiosity, and cringed as I handed it over to the young, handsome, MALE librarian to check out the book. As he handed it back to me, informing me of the due date, I gave an embarrassed smile and walked away, which I'm sure made me look so much less pathetic-looking. So embarrassing! But at least I'll be able to hone my love-inducing skills. Right.

I'm such a girl

So I had one of those nights where I was bummed by a couple events in my life. It was one of those nights where I just curled up in my bed and cried for an hour. I woke up feeling somewhat refreshed and very puffy-eyed.

My mother told me that women outlive men because women cry more; they release their emotions. Meanwhile, men repress their feelings, holding it in like a venom that is never released from their bodies, but simply recirculates and ultimately brings about their early demise. Okay my mom didn't really say the latter part, I extrapolated. Still though I think that's what she meant.

At least I'll know I'll outlive my husband. That is, unless I marry a younger guy.

Bum-free

I was incredibly bummed out by a couple recent incidents, not just oh-I'm-bummed, but I-want-to-drink-myself-into-a-stupor-and-drunk-write-in-my-stupid-blog-bummed. But writing that trite entry below about getting away really made me feel better.

Hope springs eternal.

One day

I was sitting on a wooden bench, waiting for the train. I looked above the roof of the platform across the tracks and saw perfect blue sky. It was so clear, so cloudless, I almost wanted to dive into it.

As I adjusted the scarf around my neck and pulled the edge of my trench coat to cover my exposed shin, I began to daydream about being in southern Cali. Okay so I haven't been there since 1986, but I'm allowed to concoct random fantasies about it.

(The reader must forgive me for being utterly adolescent sounding, simple-minded, and pathetically cliche. But this is my fantasy goddamnit.) I take a few girlfriends along (prerequisite: all girls must be single and unattached). When we land, the dank cold air from the originating city that had been trapped inside the plane for hours finally escapes into the mild, sunny weather. We stay at a four-star hotel flanked by palm trees. (Oh wait, palm trees are everywhere.) We rent a cherry red convertible and drive around the city with the top down, wearing pastel halter tops and shorts with cute sandals, blasting music and squealing like obnoxious tourists. Then we go to the beach and alternate between baking in the sun and trying to surf. The men are drool-worthy with six-pack abs, sculpted arms and legs--and they're all straight. After we flirt with a few guys, we give them our numbers and they say they'll call us later that night to go out.

Then we go back to the room to unwind and freshen up for the night, at which point the hot guys call us. They invite us to dinner and maybe a club afterwards. With our newly minted tans, we have dinner at one of the new up-and-coming restaurants, not one of the tourist traps. The food is remarkable; and the conversation, like the wine, flows endlessly. Then we go clubbing and the club is fifteen times more lavish and larger than any club I've been in my life. I'm already buzzing and we dance the night away until the sun rises.

And that would be Day 1.

A sequence of tragic voicemail messages

1) Hi it's me. Just calling to see you how you're doing. Give me a call when you get the chance. 123-456-7890. Talk to you later. Bye!

2) Hi, I don't know if you got my last message. I know cell service can be unreliable and I have friends who've left voicemail messages that I never get. So JUST in case you didn't receive my last one, here it is. Just wanted to see how you were doing. Call me please. My number, in case you don't have it, is 123-456-7890. Talk to you soon!

3) Hey, it's me again. My last message was a little fuzzy so I don't know if you got all of it. I was just calling to say what's up. Give me a call at 123-456-7890. Take care!

4) Hello -- it's been a week since we last talked. I'm not sure if you're getting my messages. I've left a message on your work phone, home phone, and cell phone; and I emailed you at work and home. But electronic media can be so unreliable! Call me--123-456-7890.

5) Hey there, I was just in the shower and I realized my phone was off. I don't know if you tried calling me when my phone was off. I know some people don't like leaving voicemail messages. Anyways, if you did try calling me, just letting you know I'm still here at 123-456-7890.

6) Hey, I know you've been really busy with work and home and all. I totally understand! Anyway, I saw this thing in a store that I remember you mentioned you liked. So I bought it and wanted to give it to you personally. I can hand-deliver it to you at home or work. Or I'll leave it on your doorstep. Whichever you prefer! Call me to arrange a time: 123-456-7890. Miss you!

7) Hello, it's me again. You've been so distant lately. Did I do something wrong? Call me. 123-456-7890.

An American greeting

One sunny morning, I was crossing a street when I saw a charmingly bedraggled man pushing a shopping cart. He looked at me.

"Good morning," I said.

His eyes lightened up. "You're a whore!" he said. "Your whole family is a whore!" he continued as he pushed his cart away.

How can a family be a whore, I wondered. At any rate, I replied "Have a nice day!" as I went on my way. God I love this country.

11:11 PM

The year was 2022. She tossed and turned in her bed. The back of her husband's head was dark and comforting. And she knew the kids were safe and sound at their respective colleges. Still though, it was always at 11:11 PM every night when her mind revisited the events of that one day in 1988.

It was the fifth grade spelling bee. One girl had already mispelled a word and was asked to leave the stage. It was now her turn. She stood up and tried to straighten the ruffles in her dress.

"Joy," the principal spoke into the microphone.

"Joy?" she asked.

"Yes, JOY."

Easy, she thought. "J-O-Y. Joy." She sat down, feeling very satisfied with herself.

The principal looked at the card, looked at her, and then turned to a fellow judge. There was murmuring. He went back to the microphone. "I said 'JOIN.' As in, won't you come and join the party."

"Oh," she said. "But I thought I heard you say 'joy.' "

The principal cleared his throat. "If you can't hear the word, then please ask us to use it in a sentence." They allowed her to sit on stage, but nonetheless she received 11th place. 11th out of 12.

So here she was, two Pulitzer Prizes and one National Book Award later, still musing over the incident. 'If I misheard the word,' she reasoned, 'then how was I to know I misheard it? By virtue of mishearing the word, one assumes that what one hears is in fact what they actually heard, not a misheard word.' It was the same question that haunted her every night. She wanted to go to that principal who was no doubt dead by now, and ask him, "If a tree fell in the forest, and no one heard it fall, then how the heck does anyone know a tree fell in the first place if they didn't f-ing hear it?" His tombstone would probably not retort a swift comeback. "Exactly. Of course, the force of this logic escaped you then, didn't it?!" Yet for some reason, the idea of visiting his grave to pose this very question seemed a bit tacky.

It was now midnight, and her mind began to drift to sleep. Until 11:11 PM tomorrow.

Tough love

This will be the last time I obsess about online guy #3. My friends had assured me, actually issued a verbal guarantee (which is legally binding in some states) that #3 liked me and would call me back after I called him. They rebutted every neurotic argument I concocted as to why #3 would not call. They insisted there was absolutely no way in heaven, hell or purgatory that #3 would not call. No. F-ing. Way.

Well, #3 never called. At least I can safely say this now since it's been two weeks since I last saw him and about one week since I left my short yet friendly voicemail message.

And now, not only is my ego ever so slightly bruised, but my friends have completely lost credibility. Now whenever they say "No you don't look fat in that" or "Of course you were right," I'll wonder whether they are telling me the truth or lying/patronizing me.

Perhaps it is part of the friend's job to lie to you. They say "His loss," when in reality, it is actually your loss. And what good friend would ever point out the cellulite dimples in your thigh while you try on a swimsuit? Would they ever admit that his new girlfriend who occasionally models for Vogue and Cosmopolitan is indeed prettier than you? Of course not. So perhaps I shouldn't be too disgruntled with the fact that my friends tried so hard to mask the reality that #3 didn't like me and consequently wouldn't call me. It's because they cared.

However, I do think there are times when friends need to give tough love. I would have preferred that this incident with #3 be that time. While it is sweet in the short-term to enable a girl's hopes and wishes, it is dangerous in the long-run because she will eventually find out the truth--that a guy doesn't like her, that she has cellulite, that the model is prettier--and that reality check, coming from a nonfriendly source, hurts even more.

My effect on boys in high school

When I was a sophomore in high school, I went to the homecoming dance with a boy. I later learned he was gay.

When I was a senior in high school, I went to my prom with another boy. I later learned he was gay.

Now from what I understand, gay isn't something one becomes. It's the way someone is. So I won't take the above-mentioned incidents as a reflection of my tendency to permanently turn men off from women. Perhaps I simply gravitate towards gay guys, or maybe they gravitate towards me. At any rate, I won't take offense. At least not until I turn another guy gay.

Ah, love

I've been in love two and a half times. Two guys were genuine (who comprise the "two"), and two other guys (who comprise the "half") were not. But I figure that the two non-genuine guys add up to about half. Saying "I love you" to someone is one of the hardest things for me to do, and if I said it to the two latter guys, then it must mean something. Then again, it's amazing how much pressure you feel when a guy says "I love you" to you first, and kind of just gazes at you, waiting for you to reciprocate the phrase. I may have succumbed to pressure.

Then I wonder, what if all this time I had thought I was in love with whomever, and in reality, I had never been in love? I had mistaken long-term, intense "like" for actual "love"? And then I will have wasted my I-love-you's on these undeserving guys. When you ask people who are in love how they knew they were in love, they give you that frustrating response: "You just know." Oh, okay. Thanks for clearing that up.

Or, perhaps I'm building love up to be more than it is. A friend told me that the idea of marrying for love is a modern concept, one that didn't exist until the mid-late twentieth century. Even my mom, who I think is a bit liberal for the average Asian immigrant mom, thinks it's better to marry someone who is good than wait for someone you love. "What is love anyways?" she asked. A bunch of chemicals in our brains that helps propagate the species? A social concept we made up to justify sex?

I'm sure I'll figure it out once I get there, whatever and wherever "there" is. And then hopefully, I'll just know.

The Golden State beckons

I went outside today and was welcomed with blinding sunlight and melting ice and snow. The sky was a clear blue and I realized how long it's been since I've seen unadulturated sunshine and how much I missed it and how much I like it. And I suppose seeing "The Graduate" last night should have sparked my curiosity in deflowering a 21-year-old virgin more than in California living, but it didn't. I've lived in three of the five largest cities in the U.S.; and two of the three largest. I have one more city I feel I need to check out to determine if it "fits" me: Los Angeles. I was there once as a young child, and haven't been back since.

From what I hear, people either love it or hate it. They love the vibe, the attitude, the climate, the lifestyle. Or they hate the superficiality, the flakiness, the silicon implants and bleached hair. I suppose there's only one way to find out whether or not daily sunshine and seventy to eighty degree weather is for me: see for myself.

The reunion

So The Naysayer just informed me that our ten year high school reunion is coming up this year. I can now shift my focus from meddlesome boys to preparing myself psychologically and physically for the dreaded event. The Naysayer & this other chick (the only 2 friends I keep in touch with from high school) both went to our five-year reunion and bitched me out because I didn't go. I had an excuse though--I was spending Thanksgiving with my then-boyfriend and his family. So provided that no boyfriend's family will invite me to their home for Thanksgiving, I suppose I'll go to the reunion this year on the eve of Turkey Day.

I don't expect people to get too fat or bald. I'm more curious about my old high school crushes (i.e. all instances of unrequited infatuation). I suppose I should have some petty satisfaction in knowing I actually lost weight since high school and I haven't hit the wall in terms of looks. I'm guessing at least half the class will be married by age 28, some maybe with children! Wow, that's freaky. Who knows. Maybe it isn't a coincidence that I learned about the gym near me and the reunion in the same day.

Glutton

Being the sad cliche that I am, last night (yes, Friday night) I rented a movie and pigged out on a bag of jalapeno potato chips (not baked) and fruit roll-ups (not sugar-free). I'm pretty disgusted with myself. Having recently learned that I live two blocks from a gym at which I have a lifetime membership, I decided to check it out this morning. I walk about an hour everyday (out of obligation, not discipline) so I never went out of my way to look for a gym. But once I got there, I was excited to see they had a swimming pool (I LOVE swimming); and the running track has a gorgeous view of the city. You can see the skyscrapers downtown from the top floor. And the gym was packed this morning with attractive twenty-something men and women. I wonder how many of them were hoping to purge their bodies of the gluttony of last night.

Normality

I just read my last entry and realized it makes me sound like I'm losing it. I'm not. I just kind of felt the need to blog about something non-guy-related.

Pellets

I was walking outside today when pellet-like precipitation started falling. It reminded me of the pellets on Pacman & Ms. Pacman. I remembered as a child wondering what those pellets tasted like. I kind of imagined them to be good enough to snack on, but not good enough to go out of your way to buy at the grocery store. And maybe a little seasoned with moderate density (not like those puff snacks, nor like pellets of cheese). They seemed kind of yummy at the time. I wonder why they never made a snack back then of Pacman's pellets.

The not so nice end and The nice end

The demise of two of my latter online "things" (can't really call them relationships) have led me to feeling somewhat low. So low, in fact, that I don't have the effort to be sarcastic or flippant. I will not go in chronological order because I, wanting to be an optimist, like to end things positively.

1) The not so nice end (Online Guy #3)

He said "Call me." I called him. He didn't return my call that night nor did he return my call the next day. My friends said things to me like, "Oh, he's at a conference, or maybe he's really busy with work, or maybe he's traveling on business in a country that has no cell service or telephones or internet service." My friends, my dear sweet friends. Aren't they so cute? My guy friend told me "If he was interested, he would have called you back within 24 hours. He hasn't." Then he badgered me to log onto my online dating account so he could check out guys #3 and #4. #4's profile was down (for reasons explained below) while #3's account stated he logged on earlier that day. "Hmm," the rational part of my brain thought, "if he was in fact so busy or working in a country without any mode of communication, then how was he able to find the time or means to log onto the dating website?" The answer is pretty obvious. He's moving on.

2) The nice end (Online Guy #4)

He said "We should definitely do this again." I then wrote my post below about how I wasn't feeling any special zing for him. He called me and we were chatting on the phone. Then he said, "I have something to tell you." He then informed me how he wanted to let me know he was going to try to patch things up with his ex-girlfriend. Wow. I gave him props on the phone for being so upfront and honest -- most guys would drop off the face of the planet or fly one-way to the Island of Lost Men, but #4 was so kind as to let me know what was up. I thanked him for his honesty and noted how refreshing it was for a guy to be so forthright. And he reiterated that he did have a great time and that we should keep in touch. I agreed. And the truth was, I did.

So those are "The Ends" of the 2 guys. All in one day. There really is no easy way to sugarcoat the fact that a guy just doesn't like you. It's probably easier to be angry than sad. But I suspect it's healthier to be sad, sad without the rationalizing and guy-bashing, sad without the sarcasm, just plain calm sad.

The Mysterious Island of Lost Men

There is a magical island. Its whereabouts are unknown. On this island are men, thousands of men, who have chosen to live the rest of their lives on this island. These are the men whom, after a few great dates, you never hear from again. They're the guys you clicked with at that party and asked for your phone number who never call you. They are the husbands or boyfriends who disappear without a trace. Ever since Miranda first mentioned the island on "Sex and the City," I have wondered about this place.

What mystifies me is not where this island is, but what the heck those guys do on that island. Certainly, given the trauma and pain that accompanies telling a woman "I don't like you," the island must be minimally hospitable. Do they sit around campfires and tell stories of "that clingy girl" who drove them to this final resting place? Or do they hide the pain and go about their food gathering and hut-building? How can they bear to live without the comforts and amenities of civilization? How do they keep up with their episodes of CSI? Or is shedding one's worldly skin just a gladly accepted price for never seeing "that girl" ever again?

We may never find out. But I wonder.

Toxic friends

Since one's first venture onto the playground, one will encounter many types of friends--the Fun Friend, the Casual Friend, the Best Friend, and of course, the Toxic Friend. A Toxic Friend is a "friend" who is (a) not really your friend, and (b) bad for you. I have encountered several types of toxic friends and just realized last night that one of my "girlfriends" is indeed toxic. The types are as follows:

1) The Cutter - She cuts you down in a subtle yet not very subtle manner. She makes back-handed compliments. e.g. "Wow that dress is so big and flowy. It really accentuates your shape." Or, when something crappy happens to you, instead of encouraging you or cheering you up, she says "Wow, sucks to be you! I'm so glad that didn't happen to me. I feel so sorry for you!"

2) The Competitor - She is very competitive with you, almost bordering on jealous. She can't stand to see you happy. When something really great happens to you--a new guy, a promotion, losing five pounds--she sulks, pouts, and changes the subject to something she has accomplished.

3) The Big Baby - She is very self-absorbed. She talks about herself 24-7 and asks you about her problems, her concerns, her issues. She never once asks you how your day went, and when you try to tell her about your day, she interrupts you to tell you how what you said reminds her of Issue #349.

4) The Car Accident Waiting to Happen - She is unscrupulous and unsettlingly impulsive. She's the girl who in ninth grade convinces you to sneak out at midnight so you guys can drive with a couple twenty-five year-olds to go to a sketchy club in the city. What makes her friendship so enticing is her lack of inhibition. But you know ten years down the line she could very well end up as a crack whore.

5) The Downer (a.k.a. The Hater, The Complainer) - This friend can always find something new to bitch about. Her co-workers. Her mom. Her boyfriend. Her hangnail. Everything and anything is a source of angst, pain, and suffering. She continuously exudes and defecates negativity.

-------

Okay that's all I can think of for now. I'm sure there are more. Anyways, my "girlfriend" (actually a guy who I consider to be a girlfriend) is the Big Baby. Last night he moaned for about two hours about girls, about how he's moving, about his new job, etc. I dutifully encouraged him, gave him pep talks, and advised him. After two hours, I finally asked him for his advice on #s 3 & 4. I don't know if he's jealous that I finally have concrete romantic prospects while he doesn't, but he was like, "Yeah, #4 is out. And #3 is either repulsed by you or just wants to use you for sex." Then he changes the subject back to him.

Toxic Friend, anyone?

Checklist debunked

I admit that I was one of those simple-minded girls who had a hazy checklist of requisite qualities in a man. I believed that if I were to meet a guy who possessed all of these qualities, I would fall in love with him and happiness would ensue.

#4 seems to possess, from what I can tell thus far, a lot of these checklist qualities. He is charming, he is kind, he's a great conversationalist, he's good looking, he works out regularly, he has an Ivy-League caliber undergraduate and graduate education, he has a good job, he dresses well, and he wants to have children. What is wrong with this picture? Why don't I feel that extra bada bing / zsa zsa zou that one is supposed to get when one is supposed to fall for someone?

I can't figure it out. During our landmark six hour date this weekend, I asked myself throughout the night, "Could I kiss him? Would I let him kiss me? If I don't know, is that an answer in itself? Isn't attraction supposed to be obvious rather than a question?" Perhaps his applying chapstick near the end of the evening threw me off. The night ended with a very passionate ... hug.

I surmise that romantic chemistry can't be forced, let alone predicted by a superficial checklist. It either happens or it doesn't. My one friend suggested that maybe something about #4 subconsciously turns me off. I just don't know it yet. At any rate, it appears my whole checklist theory has been effectively debunked.

Juggling #s

Tonight I have my second date with #4 (tomorrow being a holiday & all). I never did discuss my first date with #4 in this blog, suffice it to say that he is very cute and easy-going. And he's the first Asian guy I've dated in a while. We're both white-washed twinkies, so it's all good.

One of my neurotic concerns is that I'll bump into #3 while on my date with #4. We're all in the same city. I can just imagine sitting in a restaurant with #4 when all of a sudden #3 and his friends come in and we all spot each other. #3 will look at me, then at #4, and wonder if it's a date. #4 will see my look of horror, look at #3, and wonder what's going on. How would one handle that?

"Hi #3, this is #4. #4, this is #3." I will omit the phrase, "my friend, #_."

"Hi #3," #4 will say.

"Hi #4," #3 will respond.

Then I'll say "See ya!" to #3 and hope he doesn't hold it against me when I ask him out the following Wednesday. If #4 asks me, "Who's that?" then I'll reply, "Oh a friend..." and hope the interrogation ends there.

I know that technically I am a free agent and therefore free to date whomever I please. Moreover, #s 3 & 4 may very well be dating countless other women. It'd just be weird to bump into one guy you're feeling out while with another guy. As one can see, I'm not adept at juggling men. How do people do this effortlessly?

We'll see what happens. I know chances of the feared event are slim, very real and existent, but slim.

I couldn't help it

It was almost a reflex. I was at a supermarket earlier today when I turned the corner and was confronted with this abomination of Valentine's Day confections and pink and red cardboard. I couldn't help it.

I rolled my eyes.

BUT other than that, it's still "Eh."

"Scary" people

There are some people you meet at school or at work who are kind of scary. Not like in a demonic or serial killer kind of way, but just very intimidating. Something in the way they talk to you or carry themselves is wholly unfriendly and very curt.

So it's very interesting when one befriends a couple of these "scary" people. There was an attorney I used to work with who terrified the staff. He'd snap biting one-liners at people before dismissing them, leave the room while people were still talking, and hang up on them while the other person was mid-sentence. I was however able to get to know the guy and discovered that some of it was an act and most of it was an "I don't give a rat's ass"-attitude. I found it all amusing. As I walked by him in the hall one morning, he looked away, rolling his eyes at me. Instead of cowering, I smiled and chirped an extra-happy "Good morning!" "Hi," he relented. He later told me he was annoyed because he wanted to be pissy but I thwarted his efforts by being so goddamn cheerful.

I knew a girl from school who also intimidated people, both men and women. Her poise and the way she spoke was very self-assured, blunt, and concise; and she's not one of those girls who goes out of her way to be extra girly and giggly. But people interpreted her behavior as condescending and cold. I got to know her and learned that she is actually a sweet girl who happens to be very articulate. I even admired her bluntness. e.g. Guy asks her at a bar, "Hi there, how you doing?" She responds, "Not interested. Goodbye."

So the next time I meet someone who seems to be "scary," I'll give it a second thought. No doubt there are some people out there who are 100% through and through scary and mean (e.g., dictators, some teachers); but I'd like to believe they are few and far between. For the most part, everyone has a little bit of nice to them that is hidden by their mistakenly scary persona.

Eh.

I walked into a 7-11 and saw, for the first time this year, pink and red heart shaped candy boxes. It's hard to believe that Valentine's Day is only a month away. Now I won't get all sad nor will I indulge in one of my rants about how arbitrary and silly and meaningless the so-called holiday is -- that would be cliche. My "rebelling" against the holiday took place mostly in high school. I remember a bunch of us angst-laden teenagers decided to wear all black on the special occasion, mocking the girls who wore pink sweaters or red turtlenecks.

Yeah, we were so original.

Even on occasions when I had a boyfriend, the holiday celebrations seemed kind of forced. We'd dress up, buy sweets for each other, and make the effort to be lovey-dovey. Sitting across from each other in a dimly lit restaurant drinking pink champaigne was nice and all, but somehow it seemed a bit...contrived.

I guess over the years I've learned to accept it as sort of a day people randomly choose to celebrate. I've been on both ends of the holiday -- attached and single -- and all in all, it's always been sort of..."eh." Not too misery-inducing nor love-inspiring. Just "eh."

A bus ride to NY

I was getting on a Greyhound bus to travel from Philly to NY when I had the unfortunate experience of sitting next to another Asian girl. It's not that I don't like sitting next to Asians. It's just that, in a non-Asian setting, sitting next to an Asian will have everyone thinking that the Asian you're sitting next to is your relative, long-lost twin, or, if he's male, your boyfriend. These people then utter very profound observations like "Oh you two make a fine couple" or "Is that your mom?"

So I was sitting next to the Asian girl when she started chatting up with the woman next to her. I could feel it coming on when I heard the woman say "So where are you two from?" The Asian girl responded with respect to herself and ignored the "you two" part. Then the woman asked, "So what are you two going to do when you get to the city?" The Asian girl kind of glanced at me, and then said, "Well I'm going to Chinatown, I don't know what she's doing." The woman looked at her, then looked at me, and said, "Wait, you two didn't come together?" We both looked at her. "No," we said. "Well you guys look exactly alike!" We then had that (ironically) identical mixed expression of being both embarrassed and insulted. I was a little more offended because the girl was not that attractive. "No, we're not related," the girl said.

I think the woman sensed our reactions. "Oh okay. Well you look exactly alike," she repeated and added eagerly, "I like Chinese people. I am friends with a Chinese woman."

I think it's funny that certain people think that because they "know" someone of a certain demographic, they are suddenly entitled to make dumbass statements regarding that demographic. Like somehow, her ignorant statement is redeemed by the fact that she was friends with a Chinese woman. And I couldn't help but wonder if the "Chinese woman" was in fact Chinese, or if like many other Americans, she was using "Chinese" to denote "Asian" the way some people use "Coke" to mean "soda." Oh, and I'm not Chinese. Still, I like getting compliments on behalf of the Chinese.

At any rate, the girl replied, "Oh, that's nice." She put on her head phones to end the conversation, and regrettably, I too had headphones. What a sight - a pair of Asian twin sisters with headphones on a bus to NY.

The upside of racism

There is the stereotype that Asians are awkward immigrants who can barely speak English or form sentences. I sometimes overcompensate for this stereotype by abrasively overenunciating my words with the perfect American Yankee accent.

However, latent in this stereotype is a power that can be tapped into when appropriate. One such appropriate situation is the single scene.

Sometimes I don't feel like dealing with the effort of formulating a tactful yet firm response to a lewd or unattractive guy hitting on me, so instead, I cover my mouth with my hand, giggle idiotically, and say "No English speaky." Even when I say "No English speaky" with my normal American accent, they still believe it and walk away.

I suppose I am in a sense perpetuating the pervasive stereotype of the Immigrant Asian. But the sheer simplicity of this method, the 100% effectiveness, is nearly impossible to resist.

Confused

So I'm sitting in my apartment last night, fretting over how I'm going to ask #3 out that very night. I have to be casual yet cool yet friendly yet non-desperate. Easy, right? As I'm doing quantum dating-calculus in my head, my phone rings. I look at the name. It's #3.

I let it ring a couple more times (more like I was spazzing so much I couldn't flip open the phone for a good ten seconds). I pick-up and breathe the casual yet cool yet friendly yet non-desperate "hello?" "Hi," he says, "it's [#3]." Of course I know it is him, but I reply "Oh, hi!" And so he asks me what I'm doing now, and I say "Oh, nothing." He says how he is thinking of grabbing some dinner and asks me if I would be interested in joining him. Of course I am. He tells me he'll be picking me up in about 35 minutes. Great. Sounds great. We hang up.

I neglected to mention that I had already eaten dinner. Also, this doesn't leave me enough time to hop into the shower and get dolled up, so I just doll up. Look cute, but not too cute, just effortlessly cute.

We go to one of those hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurants and chat away. He is looking very cute and is still the same charming funny guy I met on our first date. After dinner, he drives me home, opens the car door for me, and lets me out. We are standing outside on my street in front of my building. I am on the elevated curb, and he is on the street. It's a drizzly night now, and the street lights with the drizzle make everything seem kind of dreamy. I look at him, smile, and say "Well I had a great time. Thank you for dinner. This was a lot of fun." He semi-smiles and gives me that "uh huh" look. And I smile...and wait...and wait...(in my mind, I am leaning forward and closing my eyes).

"I gotta get back," he says to me and points to his running car, just in case I don't know what he's talking about. "Call me," he adds, and proceeds to hop into his car and drive away.

I'm standing on the curb, stunned. Okay, a kiss was optimistic, but no hug or even polite handshake? What did I do wrong? I revisited every discussion on our date to figure out what I did that turned him off so much that the thought of just shaking my hand repulsed him. My guy friend thinks that he was just very shy and awkward. I honestly have no idea.

Ah, hope

My guy friend just informed me that Online Guy #3 effectively placed the ball in my court when he said "Call me if you want to meet up again," so now it's my move to contact him. Damn it!

I have a coffee date with OG #4 tonight. I'm not too enthused about it, not because there's anything terribly wrong with him, but because that there's nothing terribly right. Also, he's not the dreamy elusive #3. But he's cute I guess, and nice. And the hopeful optimistic teenager in me prods me with "What if he's your soul mate and you don't even know it?" Hope springs eternal I suppose.

Rash

My mother always told me I was very rash as a child. I do not think I was a bad kid, I just occasionally neglected to think before acting. I remember once in fifth grade, I thought it would be funny to carve two names on the blackboard, since my friend seemed to like this one boy. Needless to say, I got a berated for vandalizing school property. In eighth grade, I on a whim started telling students who had history after me that there was a pop quiz and they had to know X, Y, and Z. The history teacher was standing right behind me. I got a zero on that quiz.

Yeah, not too smart. I'd like to think I grew out of my child-like ways. And if I didn't, then I'd like to think I've evolved from brash to spontaneous, impulsive, and brazen. Okay, and maybe with a dash of rash.

Online Guy #3

I know my blog has inadvertently and temporarily turned into "Yellow Gal's Dating Diary." My apologies.

Lunch with OG #3 seemed to go really well. (#3 is the dude who took five weeks to ask me out.) After lunch, he asked me to go to X with him. Then after X, he asked me to go to Y with him. It was one of those dates that starts out as one thing and bleeds into four different activities that take up most of the afternoon. I had a lot of fun with him.

The end of the date threw me off however. He wasn't sure whether or not to hug me or shake my hand, and so I said "let's hug" and we awkwardly hugged. I felt really dumb. Then he said, "Well, call me if you want to meet up again." And I replied, "Or you can contact me." He said sure, and vaguely suggested doing Z next week.

So I'm thinking, Dude did seem to be semi-interested in me; he kept asking me to do more and more activities with him. He could've ditched me right after lunch, but he didn't. But then at the end, he didn't affirmatively say he'd contact me, and instead asked me to call him. My guy friends insist that he is just shy given the hug debacle and that it took him five weeks to ask me out. But come on -- when a girl giggles for ten straight minutes at every joke you tell, invades your personal space, and accepts your offer of a ride home when she lives one block away from where your car is parked, she is giving very clear signals.

Not sure what to do now. I think I'll wait it out. If he doesn't contact me, I guess he's just not be that into me.

Duh

After further reflection, I realized what I may have done that might have turned #2 off. I, whilst drinking a very strong cosmopolitan (yes, typical excuse, blame the alcohol), started spurting left-wing liberal ideology. I'm not even that crazy liberal. It's just that sometimes I get in the mood. He previously described himself as liberal, but now that I look back, I remember him just looking at me during my political ramblings, not nodding, not responding, just...blankly looking at me.

After the fact, I read this article on what topics to avoid on a first date, and ironically the #2 topic to avoid was politics.

Yeah. I sometimes wonder how I don't fall down more often.

Date results

Date with OG #2, on a scale between "sucked big time" and "perfect," was between "eh" and "fine." No crazy chemistry or anything. It ended with him shaking my hand and uttering a vague suggestion of "getting together some time."

Whatever. Looking forward to the date with OG #3 on Saturday.

Young(er) at heart

I have just taken the Real Age Test. The test results reveal that given my calendar age of 28.1, my real age is 26.9. Why, I'm just a girl!

Online Guy #2

Have a first date with Online Guy #2 tonight. Neurosis and cynicism wrangle with hopeful optimism. In other words, it might suck big time, but I hope it doesn't.

New Year's

We went to a club in the city. I had suspected that I had reached an age where I was too old to go to a club with loud pulsating hip hop and house music, where strange men come up behind you and dance with you, and where the appropriate attire can be summarized in the adage: "Less is more."

I thought we were too old. But we weren't. I had so much fun. One doesn't realize the dearth of men who enjoy dancing, who avidly engage in it, and who are good at it, until she goes to a club where such men abound. I felt very uninhibited. And there was that superficial high a gal gets when she garners male attention in the form of dancing.

I gave 1 guy my number. For some reason, I harbor the belief that no substantive relationship can ever arise from a bar or club, even though my friends and I-- clearly non-hoochies--patronize the same venues.

All in all, a good time was had by all. Happy New Year's!

The gap

We are sitting on a couch in a cafe, nursing our respective cups of tea and cider. He is facing me, knee folded precariously close to mine. There is a perfect maroon gap between his knee and my knee. I concentrate on ignoring it as he tells me a story, so much so that I almost don't notice my tea is about to spill.

Almost.

"Woops," I say as I adjust my hand.

He looks at me, smiles, and continues his anecdote. I look at him, his odd gesticulations and the way he tilts his head at the beginning of every sentence. And I'm still aware of the gap. Then, for what I believe to be for emphatic purposes, he places his hand on my knee. My heart races, and I must have exhibited some expression because he immediately retracts his hand.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's fine," I reply, sipping my tea.

"No, I'm not like you know--" he stammers.

I look at his embarrassed face and say, "No that's fine, it's okay." I take his hand and place it back on my knee. "See?" I say.

We then look at each other, then back at his hand on my knee. Suddenly we burst into laughter.

"Okay nevermind," I say, laughing. "Take your hand back." I toss his hand from my knee.

"Thank you," he says. I take another sip and see that his leg has unfolded. His shin touches the top of my knee.

I look at him and smile. "You're welcome."

Finally

The guy -- the one I've been debating over whether or not I should ask out, the one who refuses to ask me out -- FINALLY asked me out. I was on the verge of asking him to coffee, when he asked me. I'm glad he did, not only because it shows he's semi-interested, but also because I don't have to go through the ordeal of asking a guy out.

Now onto obsessing over whether or not he's a freak.

The solution

"Sometimes I don't even know if I exist," Peter said.

"Oh really?" she replied.

"Really." He slurped his cappuccino. The foam dripped off his upper lip. "You know how I know I exist though?"

"How?" she said, unable to look away from the foam.

"When I walk down the street, people walk around me. Okay sure some bump into me. But it's like, there's this space, and I take it up."

"Wow. That's deep." She looked at him to see if he noticed her sarcasm. He didn't.

"It's so sad," he continued, "sometimes I just go into a random store, and stand in line, just to be somewhere, taking up space. And then when it's my turn in line, it's like the sales person sees me, looks at me, and acknowledges me with a 'Can I help you?' "

"Uh huh."

"It feels so good," he said, taking another sip.

"You need help."

"What?"

"I like kelp," she said.

"I'm so glad you're talking to me though. If it weren't for you, I'd probably jump off a bridge or something."

"Wow, that's really sweet, Peter. Thanks," she said. Then she smiled.

"Yeah," he said smiling. "It's not like I need other humans to know I exist though. When I walk by those automatic doors, they open because there's something there."

"Yeah."

"That something ... is me."

"Yep," she said.

Peter nodded dolefully, staring into his cappuccino. She studied his face for a moment and said, "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"You should totally get a blog."

Irrational

Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream has:

o a lot of fat
o a lot of sugar
o a negligible amount of nutrition
o mysterious addictive qualities rendering the snacker unable to resist eating more than the serving size of half a cup

I know fat and sugar are bad. I know nutrition is good. I know addiction to fat and sugar is bad. Knowing these facts, I do not understand why a rational human being will continue to buy Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream and additionally eat it for fifteen minutes at a time. But for some reason, I can't put my spoon down. Ahh!

The flight of the nail

I have a nail. I waited until I visited home for the holidays to get this nail. I needed a nail in my studio to hang a calendar my brother bought me. I thought it silly to buy a box of nails for just one nail, when I can just as easily go home, take one, and bring it back with me. As I was wrapping my nail up in a piece of paper (so it doesn't poke into my other things) and placing it inside my bookbag, I realized that if it were to go through the scanner at the airport, the security personnel might freak out over the nail. It is metal. It is sharp. It may be one inch long, but who knows what a person wielding a nail will do on a flight? And I will be on a nonstop flight that spans several hundred miles. Even more suspicious.

So then I opened my luggage bag and found a little compartment and placed the nail in there. Then I remembered that they scan the luggage as well. Would it be more suspicious if they searched my bag, found regular clothes and such, and a random nail? And why was it so suspiciously hidden in a compartment of a suitcase? Why couldn't she just bring it on the flight?

I then thought about writing on the paper wrapping the nail, "Nail for calendar." But then the security personnel will be like, "Why is she going through all the effort of writing 'Nail for calendar'? What calendar? It must be a subterfuge..."

Then I thought, maybe I can tape the nail to the calendar, and put a post-it on the calendar saying, "Nail with calendar. Need to hang calendar." But then I figured that was going a bit overboard and might arouse even more suspicion.

So my current plan is this: I will leave the nail wrapped in paper in the little pocket in my baggage. I won't write "For calendar" on it.

He's just not that into me?

I had the displeasure of reading the unapologetically blunt book, "He's Just Not That Into You," by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, both of whom were writers of "Sex and the City."

As I began reading the book, I became really depressed. It essentially said that if a guy likes you, he will call, he will ask you out, he will date you. If he doesn't, then he is just not that into you. All those excuses about being busy, being shy, being intimidated, losing your phone number are all just a crock. If a guy really likes you and is busy, he'll make time. If a guy is smitten with you but lost your number, he will find it somehow. All of those excuses are simply lies masking the reality that the guy is not that into you.

Another salient point of the book was that men should ask women out. Period. Greg said that guys don't like it when girls ask them out. The guys who do like it are lazy and you don't want a lazy guy. Men like to pursue women. The authors went even further to say that relationships initiated by the women NEVER WORK OUT. In their admittedly unscientific poll, none of the long-term relationships began with the woman asking the men out first.

The knowledge should have been liberating, but the feeling of rejection is a heavy one. The few guys I've been interested in have neither called me nor asked me out (but they sure love to email me), and so I concluded that those guys were just not that into me. Moreover, the prospect of asking them out seemed unappealing, given that such relationships will be doomed from the start.

The book went on to comfort the rejected reader by saying every other line how fabulous and gorgeous the single female reader is. Somehow, given that Greg and Liz don't know me, their words rang hollow.

I harassed my male friend, The Naysayer, about these ideas, and he told me that the book was a crock. That semi-made me feel better. I then went on Amazon.com to read reviews of the book, and thankfully found some reviews written by men who completely disagreed with the book's premise. A number of men seemed to have married women despite the men's displaying all the I'm-not-that-into-you signals. Some men are so terrified of rejection that they won't ask out a girl even though they do like the girl. And The Naysayer told me he likes it when girls ask him out.

Some brief points I do agree with though:
o If a guy says he doesn't want to get married, believe it. Don't think you can change him.
o If a guy breaks up with you and you fall into this sex-with-the-ex "friendship," get out. Don't think you can lull him back into being your boyfriend.
o If a guy is evasive about the status of your "relationship," take that as a sign.

Okay I could go on. But I won't. It's an interesting book, and I'd recommend it just for discussion purposes. Its harsh perspective however simply does not align with reality.

I knew this was going to happen.

It was inevitable. But I've jumped on the blog-wagon by taking one of those inane blogthings quizzes.

Your Ideal Relationship is Polyamory

You want to have your cake... and everyone else's. Which isn't a bad thing, if everyone else gets to eat too! You're too much of a free spirit to be tied down by a traditional relationship. You think relationships should be open and free, with few restrictions.

There was just one question where I couldn't decide between two choices. The question was:

1. You are usually attracted to people who:
a) Are stable, romantic, and cute
b) Are fun and make you laugh
c) Share your goals and values
d) You don't think will hurt you
e) Are your physical type
f) You share a certain chemistry or zing with

I couldn't decide between b and f. So I took the quiz twice, leaving all my answers the same except for this one question. The first result above was due to my choosing f. The second result below was due to my choosing b.

Your Ideal Relationship is Serious Dating

You're not ready to go walking down the aisle. But you may be ready in a couple of years. You prefer to date one on one, with a commitment. And while chemistry is important, so is compatibility.

I have no idea how/why those two separate responses make me sound polygamous in the former and monogamous in the latter. I do think I'm more of a "serious dating" girl than a "polyamory" girl.

What's Your Ideal Relationship?

First Christmas

Today my mother, brother, and I visited my dad. It should not have been too surprising that there were many others who were visiting their loved ones as well. I watched the people, some in random clusters, others alone, hovering over random mounds of grass. I wondered what their stories were.

So we walk to the usual spot, and it's the first time I see my father's name engraved on a steel plate on a flat rock. Grass had already begun growing on what was once fresh earth.

One may say this was our first Christmas without him. But today, we were there. With him.

Fortune cookie message

"You will be successful in everything."

A tad optimistic, aren't we?

Seaside Heights, NJ

Today my brother and I went to the shore just to walk along the beach on the boardwalk, browse through the one or two novelty stores that were open, and play a game or two in an arcade. It was a partly cloudy day, hence the muted colors. (Click on the pics to see larger size.)

A couple seagulls waddle on the empty beach.

An old school joint on the boardwalk.

Same picture of old school joint. I like antique looking signs.

Never heard of a hot dog cooked in beer.
Too bad it was closed, because I'm sure that
would've been great for my diet.

Ferris wheel by the Atlantic Ocean.


Where sky meets water and water meets land.

A less than great friend

My girlfriend for the first time in a long time, met a cute, intelligent guy, went on a few dates with him, and finally kissed him just last night. I am extremely happy for her that she is finally getting what she has always deserved.

A truly great friend would be 100% happy for her. I am however only 99%. In the last x months, I have had a total of 2 dates, the last one ending with the guy calling me the wrong name. As I was on the phone with her, gleefully recounting every detail of her wonderful date, I couldn't help but feel somewhat bummed & envious (which is the 1%). I realize that this fact makes me a less than truly great friend, and in fact, a selfish, self-centered friend. But I suppose it's better to come to grips with this fact than pretend otherwise.

Chivalry lives!

My faith in romance and men overall was reaffirmed when the other day, my guy friend said to me, "I need some advice, Yellow Gal: How do I juggle all my hos?"

What's a dream

My then boyfriend once told me about a dream he had. He was walking through Hell when he came before a great hall. In the great hall was one large throne flanked by legions of demons and the wailing damned. And on the throne was ... me. Yellow Gal.

"What are you doing here?" he asked me.

"Oh, yeah. I'm the devil," I said lackadaisically on my throne, "You know, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub."

"Really? I never knew that."

"Believe it."

"Okay," he said. And that was the dream.

Needless to say, we didn't work out.

A yellow gal

To avoid the consequences of having an expired driver's license, I decided to go to the Department of Transportation to renew it. As I waited for my number to be called, I looked around the room and marveled at how diverse the other people in the waiting room were.

I thought to myself, "Wow, I'm the only white person here."

I then remembered that I was not, in fact, white, and realized how white-washed I had become. This conclusion was further supported when I later caught myself in the car singing along to Hootie and the Blowfish.

Must remind myself, I am a yellow gal.