The question

He sees her without her make-up on. She is lying next to him on her bed, props herself up with her elbow and rests her head on her hand, facing him. Her damp hair falls across her face. He touches her hair and tucks the tendrils behind her ear. Then he looks at her through his glasses.

"You're beautiful," he says.

She laughs. She tries in her late-twenty-something mind to write it off as corny, cheesy, silly, stupid, and - oh yeah - just plain false but she can't. Like a girl, she laughs. Laughs and looks down.

Can a man really think she's actually beautiful? No make-up, hair a mess, just her, raw and plain and naked. How does one respond to that? "Thank you"? "Oh please, stop"? Or perhaps the self-deprecating "Are you blind? I'm hideous, what the hell are you talking about"?

But she doesn't argue or agree or thank him or even acknowledge the comment. She just laughs and look down. When she looks at him again, she sees he is still looking at her.

"You know, I can't fall for you."

Fall for her? Did she just hear that right? Fall for her? As in ... fall for her?

"What do you mean?" she asks. She wants to hear him say it, but she knows he wouldn't. He couldn't.

"I can't get attached."

She blinks and says, "I know."

He leaves her bed that night and goes home. "Fall for you," what does "fall for you" really mean? she asks herself, thinking maybe there are different meanings for "fall for" but hoping it is the one she is thinking of. Maybe in some circles, "fall for" means "getting attached," as he implied.

Allowing her neurosis to get the best of her -- and just to be extra sure -- she goes to dictionary.com and looks it up.

fall for

1. To feel love for; be in love with.
2. To be deceived or swindled by: fell for the con artist's scheme and lost $200,000.

She knows it couldn't have been definition #2 as she hadn't been involved in any con artist's scheme she was aware of. It had to be #1. It had to be ... hadn't it? Could he be falling for her, in the dictionary.com-definition-#1 sense? Or had he meant something else?

She wonders.

The notable noodle

I ignored the health nut voice inside my head and took the liberty of ordering spicy Thai noodles for lunch. I've had a craving for noodles for the past few days but held off for reasons like, noodles are too heavy for the work day, the noodle shops are too far, and noodles aren't exactly the most healthy meal.

I love noodles, though my favorite type of noodle is the udon noodle. It has the perfect thickness and texture. The Thai noodles I got today were flat and wide but yummy nonetheless. I prefer thicker noodles over thinner noodles, firmer over mushy. I like them in soups, stir fried, or marinated in a sauce. Soooo good.

I think there's some contention over who invented the noodle first, Italians, Arabs or Chinese. However, the finding of a 4,000-year-old bowl of noodles in China may point to the Chinese as the originators.

Whoever invented them, thank you. A life without noodles is a life not lived.

Expiration dating

Had my date last night with the other guy, not the 9.5-on-a-scale-of-1-to-10 from Sunday night, also not the boy in the hypothetical blurb below. (I need to think of new monikers for these guys.)

Anyway, a few disconcerting things: First, he kept hinting throughout the night about having sex. Like he thinks I'm attractive, he likes me, he wants to take me home, or alternatively I could take him home. I admit I do get flirty and risqué in my banter. I have the gifted ability to make anything into a double entendre. So I arguably led him to incessant thoughts of sex. Still though, there's perhaps nothing less sexy than a guy making it patently obvious all he wants is sex with you.

Second, and this may be related to the first point, he is leaving for grad school in two weeks. Said grad school is far, far away. What is the point of starting anything if there's only two weeks left? The only answer I can think of is a two-week fling. And then I wonder, could I be That girl? The fling girl? A flinger? A fling to be flung? (Okay I'll stop.)

Third, when he kissed me at the end of the night, our teeth bumped. I hate it when that happens. But maybe a first kiss with someone is like first sex - awkward and weird at first, but after a few more tries you guys get into each other's grooves. So to speak. Only rarely do either go perfectly well the first time.

All that aside, the guy is charming and funny. He's a very likeable guy, and maybe if he wasn't leaving in two weeks, this could have been something. I'm just not sure what to think of him, or how to proceed. The Naysayer states the obvious: the guy just wants unbridled sex for two weeks and then leave.

Perhaps a risk-benefit analysis is in order. Risks: I'll get attached, I'll kick myself for having meaningless sex, I'll get hurt. Benefits: Sex.

Hm, decisions decisions...

A sign

A girl and a boy are having dinner together. The girl accidentally drops a fry into her water, effectively contaminating it. The boy has his water, full to the rim, and continues to drink from it while she's eating a salty, spicy sandwich. They finish their meal, the boy finishing his glass of ice water, the girl finishing her sandwich, parched.

It did not even cross the boy's mind to offer her a sip of his water. Still though, the girl could have just asked, "Can I have a sip of your water please?" at which the point the boy would have probably said sure. Boys aren't mind-readers. Moreover, it was his water and if he didn't want to share it, that's his prerogative.

And little details are just little details...Right?

Thanks Rich

I always wondered why guys loved watching girls make out, bathe each other, have pillow fights and the like.

Richard Posner, a judge sitting on the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit, a professor at the University of Chicago Law School, a summa cum laude graduate of Yale University and valedictorian of Harvard Law School, former clerk to United States Supreme Court Justice Brennan, and perhaps one of the greatest legal minds of all time, had it figured it out when he stated in one of his opinions:

"Few men are interested in lesbians."

I read this and laughed out loud. Some chick sued Hustler magazine for showing pics of her that wrongfully implied that she was a lesbian, in the case Douglass v. Hustler Magazine, 769 F.2d 1128 (7th Cir. 1985). The article showed her "straddling" other women and apparently "engag[ing] in sexual activity." Posner wrote on behalf of the Court:

We would not ourselves think that Hustler was seriously insinuating -- or that its readership would think -- that [the chick] is a lesbian. Hustler is a magazine for men. Few men are interested in lesbians. The purpose of showing two women in apparent sexual embrace is to display the charms of two women.

So it's not the actual homosexuality of two women that drives men crazy, it's just that the vision of 2 amorous women is better than 1 woman.

Never thought I'd look to a judge to figure out the answer to that mystery.

Smart guys are hot

I think if given the choice between dating a guy more intelligent than I or dating a guy less intelligent than I, I would opt for the more intelligent guy. It's a slight turn off when, during the course of flirtatious banter, the guy doesn't get a joke I make, thinks Islam is a sect of Judaism, or interrupts me to ask me the meaning of the word I just used (in one real case, the word was "superficial"). Don't get me wrong, I don't want a guy who will wax philosophical about philosophy or will only be friends with other pretentious stick-up-his-ass intellectuals. But I think it takes a certain amount of intelligence to be funny, to see things in a quirky amusing way, to make witty allusions to random things. Also, conversations on how cool it is that mentos and Diet Coke react together and how funny it is that some dogs chase their tails, while entertaining, would after a certain point grow tiresome.

Of course this preference runs the risk of my feeling dumb in the presence of an intellectually superior being. But that I don't mind so much. I think it's cool when a guy knows so much about a topic I know little about it. It's an opportunity to learn about something new, be exposed to something different, and at the same time make a guy feel good cuz he knows sooo much about something sooo cool.

Now to find a guy who likes dumber girls...

Kicking the habit

I have a perfectly disgusting habit. It isn't the only bad habit I have, but it's one that, from time to time, revolts me.

I bite my nails.

I know it isn't as bad as heroin or porn, but it's pretty nasty. I don't know what compelled me to start biting my nails that one day in 1985 in elementary school, but I've been biting my nails for about 20 years and it doesn't look like I'll be quitting anytime soon.

I have my mother's hands and I look at the way her slender ivory fingers taper off to her perfectly formed nails. I know, I just know that if I let my nails grow, I would have graceful fingers like hers. Instead, I see slender fingers taper off to ugly, mangled nails.

It's so easy to just yell at someone, "Just stop!" So logical: Just stop biting your nails. But there is this inexplicable, irresistible urge to bite them off once they grow. It makes no sense. It's bad for my teeth, and it even hurts my fingers when I bite my nails.

But nail polish, vinegar, disgusting tasting potions, scotch tape, chewing gum and the like all have failed in getting me to kick my habit. Whenever I meet former nail biters, I ask how they did it. Their so-called solutions: "Oh now I bite the inside of my cheek" or "Now I eat the outside of my fingers" or worse, "Oh now I smoke." So I'm guessing this is an oral fixation. I need to satisfy my oral fixation with something other than my nails, without having to gnaw on the inside of my cheek or lips, eat the skin off my fingers or smoke. Chewing gum does not help. Okay, right now, I'm just going to stop. This article on kicking bad habits and another one on nail-biting might help.

Better late than never.

Thinking = Good

I think of myself as being somewhat fearless. I'm not afraid to take the subway at night. I'm not afraid to walk home by myself. However, as I learned the almost-hard way, there's a difference between being fearless and being senseless.

Saturday night, the girls and I stayed out until about 4 in the morning. We were leaving this club fatigued and still buzzing. Four of the girls were headed in one direction, while I lived only several blocks in the opposite direction. They hailed a cab and as they piled in, I yelled out to them, "Have a good night! I'm walking this direction." They bid me good night, one of them instructed me to call her when I got home, and they drove off.

So I began walking away from the club when I heard a guy behind me yell out "Hey--" and ask me some unintelligible question. I didn't turn around nor did I stop. I kept on walking.

It was a bit chilly, I was wearing a sleeveless dress, and so I put on my jacket as I walked down the lonely street. Then I got the feeling that the guy was walking behind me. Whatever, I thought to myself, he's probably just walking to an ATM or happens to live in the same direction.

Still just to be sure, I began walking faster, pounding my black high heels on the pavement.

I could still discern the sound of him behind me. He was keeping up with my pace. I started feeling a little anxious. It was four in the morning, I was in a large city, I was alone, and the normally busy street was dead.

Chill, I thought to myself. You're being paranoid. Just cross the street and see what happens. He probably isn't even following you.

I began to cross the street. As I crossed it, I looked both ways -- to the left, to the right. When I looked to my right, i.e., behind me, I saw that the guy began to cross the street as well, silent, looking in my direction all the while. He was following me.

OKAY, I thought to myself. I thought about calling a friend on my cell -- but I remembered that being on the phone distracts the caller and makes her more prone to attack. I thought about dialing 9-1-1, but I figured the cops wouldn't come in time. I had no cash on me for a cab but I knew a few accepted credit cards. I saw a couple cabs drive by. I walked in the middle of the street and hailed a cab. It turned around from the other side of the street and stopped in front of me. I opened the door and jumped right in and told the cabbie where to drop me off.

The guy who had been following me stopped outside the cab. The cab driver motioned him to walk by, but he just stood there, looking in. The cabbie then drove off. I took a deep breath. "I think that man was following me, so thanks for picking me up." The cabbie said, "Oh really? Wow. Yeah I thought it was weird that he didn't move out of the way and just stood there."

"Yeah, that was scary."

I wonder what the heck that guy was thinking, following me. Wasn't my complete silence in response to his calling out to me indicative of the fact that I was not interested in him? What would he have done had he caught up to me? Persuade me even more? The eerie way he stayed silent while following me, the way he crossed the street when I crossed the street, the way he stood outside the cab when I got in -- it makes me think he was not in the mood to persuade. Even if I had in my purse a bottle of mace, a stun gun, a .45 revolver, a bazooka, it still scares the shit out of me that some guy could have actually contemplated...doing something to me.

So gals, be aware, be smart - and take a cab after leaving a club at 4 AM.

Long story long

Had a fun weekend. A lot of things happened. One included meeting a guy.

Four gals and I entered a bar to meet up with one of the gals' male friend, who was with his buddies. The bar was packed. I scanned the room and happened to glimpse a certain guy. He was very attractive, and I would've probably been wary of him as a playa if he wasn't wearing glasses. Something about his unassuming glasses just made him all the more cuter. We made eye contact every so often; I even smiled at him when he looked at me, but he never approached me.

So I was introduced to one of my gal friend's friend's friend. We were chatting happily away and I did my girly-flirty thing of ooh-ing and ah-ing over his college days as a track star and his ability to run a 4-minute mile. Then one of my gals tapped me on the arm and said "Go get a drink on my tab. I need to hit a $20 minimum before I can close it." I looked at her swaying body and the glass of beer in her right hand. Clearly, she could not polish off that beer and another without dire consequences. So I went up to the bar to order a screwdriver. They served it and then asked to see my gal pal to close the tab. Just as I was speaking to my gal pal, the very attractive guy came up to me and said "Can I buy you a drink?"

I was stunned for a second. Then I composed myself and smiled. "Sure."

We sat at the bar and just chatted away. He was a graduate student at a nearby university who liked to take photographs and dance to hip hop. I was enamored. We talked and talked when I feel a tap on my arm.

It's Track Star guy whom I had been speaking with earlier, and his friend (who's my gal pal's friend). "Oh hi," I said smiling painfully.

"Hi," he said, "look, I just wanted to let you know I'm heading out now. I would've liked to see you more some time--" at which point he leaned in closer "--but I can't compete with a guy who wears cargo pants," he added mockingly.

I looked at the very attractive guy's pants. Yes, they were cargo pants. Maybe I am not that fashion-conscious, but it didn't bother me that the guy wore cargo pants.

My gal pal's friend chimed in, "Yeah, the guy wears cargo pants."

I nodded and smiled. They shrugged at me. I shrugged back. What did they expect me to do? Dis a perfectly attractive, interesting, smart guy over cargo pants? (Now if they were spandex or leopard skin pants, that'd be another thing.)

"Bye," I said and waved. And that was the end of that. The very attractive guy and I exchanged numbers, and just last night, we had our first date (he was very very busy for the next couple weeks so that was the only time he was free).

We had dinner and drinks and talked about everything from politics to the environment. It was a good date. After dinner, he walked me home.

When we got to my apartment building, I stopped in front of the entrance, smiled and said the typical "I had a really good time tonight"-closing, with which he agreed. He looked at me and then leaned in--at this point I had no idea and no expectation that we'd ever kiss, it never crossed my mind--and he kissed me. It was one of those slow gentle kisses that slowly grew into something more ... involved. He was holding my face when all of a sudden we heard these hoots, whistles and cheers from some random people walking on the sidewalk. We looked at each other and laughed. Then he kissed me again, my lips, my face, my neck. (Can you tell I've been replaying this in my mind all day?) Then he said good night, and that he'd call me.

The very attractive guy was a very excellent kisser. On a scale of 1 to 10, easily a 9.5. I hope he calls.

On a separate note, the guy with whom I went on the excellent date with last Wednesday called me today. We're going out on Thursday.

They say when it rains, it pours. My question, why can't it just rain consistently? Why can't I just not have any dry spells or droughts, and just have an even precipitation of cute smart guys throughout the entire year? Is that so much to ask for? I don't think so.

Worst Album Covers Ever

The worst album covers EVER.

It's so bad, it's good.

Mother may I

As my friend was driving me home last night after dinner and a drink, I gazed at all the sights of my immediate neighborhood. I live in a predominantly gay area of the city, where men openly hold hands with each other and rainbow flags hang in the windows of every other store. The Gay Pride parade marches right next to my apartment building. Nearby stores openly sell sex toys, leather, fishnet stockings and wigs for "down there." There are also trendy little shops and outdoor cafes. So the vibe is a bit yuppie, very liberal and a tad risque.

I really like my neighborhood.

Then I remembered, my mom mentioned visiting me some time. My mom, my Bible-thumping, evangelical mother, would be visiting my neighborhood. How do I pull that off? My apartment building is next to a hair salon called "Good Head" and a palm reader. The vision of men holding hands and stores with mannequins sporting black leather pasties would probably not bode well with a Christian Asian immigrant. I think her head would literally explode. I contemplated putting blinders on her. Maybe give her a brochure to distract her while we walk from the train to my apartment? No idea.

But at least she'll think the rainbow flags are pretty.

Wednesday night

Last night I went on a date with this guy I met through a friend from school. Another younger guy. This time though he's 26. Very smart, cute, laid back and funny. The first time I met him, he tried very hard to get me to go home with him ("I literally live just around the corner"), which I declined. I did give him my number and decided to give him a chance when he called me the next day. (3-day-rule? What 3-day-rule?)

Last night, we had dinner and drinks. Much to my surprise, I had an awesome time. I'm still surprised at how well it went. He apologized for trying so hard to get me to go home with him, and was a total gentleman throughout the night. Did not try to sleep with me. Did not even try to kiss me! I have to say, that earned him a few points. We had great conversation and a lot of chemistry. At the end of the night, we hopped into a cab so he could drop me off. He refused to let me pay for my cab fare. I got out, and then he cabbed back to his place. Afterwards, he called me and we chatted for a few minutes. I think we said to each other at least ten times throughout the night how much fun we were having.

Then this morning he emailed me. I can't deny that I squealed just a little when I read his email. Perfectly flirty.

I just met this guy. And I think I might like him.

Adventures in researching

I went to the library this afternoon. It was cool and damp and quiet, the way a library should be. A woman in a suit walked by my table where I had my laptop and a few reference books sprawled about. The woman sat down at her table, several tables in front of me, and began reviewing one of the various binders and books that were piled on her table.

I was typing away when I heard this hissing sound. I figured it was a pipe or something. The hissing became louder, like an angry whispering, and suddenly morphed into this screeching voice. I looked up and saw it was the woman in front of me. She was alone at her table, her back toward me, and shaking violently. She held her hands were in the air, as if begging some imaginary monster to please leave her alone. Maybe she's practicing her opening statement, I thought. Then she began whimpering and shaking her head, shielding herself with her bony hands. Suddenly her voice changed into this guttural voice and I could hear her cursing and whispering and shrieking insults and obscenities like "Idiot!" and "Fucking asshole!"

Needless to say, I was scared shitless.

I tried to concentrate on my reading, but my heart was thumping so loudly in my ears, I couldn't hear myself think. Maybe she had Tourette Syndrome. Tourette Syndrome was better than just plain crazy. Maybe she was possessed. Or maybe she had multiple personalities -- that would explain the different voices. At any rate, I had to wrap up my research to go back to the office, and slowly reshelved my books so as to not disturb the Scary Woman. I was actually afraid she was going to attack me, teeth baring, fingernails outstretched.

But she didn't.

I seriously think I'm traumatized.

The tangent

He was supposed to be a tangent. A marginal recreation. A thing on the side. A good lay.

Her friends, her job, her family--this was her reality. This was the thing around which the tangent flitted meaninglessly. He was supposed to be meaningless.

But somehow, he crept into the corner of her mind, slowly and carefully, crossing that boundry line between tangent and real. And somehow, this most flagrant violation of her rules of geometry became a welcomed wrong. Her reality inverted and he became the thing that seemed most real to her. It was the white pressed shirt that fit over his shoulders. The way his forearms pressed against her back when he held her. The way she felt when he kissed her. And everything else became marginal, her real life became a formless mass that surrounded him.

Friends asked her to dinner, and she wondered if he would be free then. Mother would call on the phone and she would click over the moment he called. She stayed late at work just to make up for the time she spent daydreaming about him. And as she watched her life revolve around him, she remembered to herself, He was supposed to be meaningless. He was supposed to be a tangent to my real life. But her real life had become a tangent to him.

Just another face

I think I'm pretty good at recognizing faces. Remembering people's names, however, is another thing. I can be introduced to someone and one minute later, completely forget her name.

At any rate, I took this test that tests your ability to recognize both familiar and unfamiliar faces. For famous faces, I got 97% correct. For unfamiliar faces, I got 92% correct overall.

Still though, what's the point in remembering faces if you can't remember their names?

Just say no

I've been carded for alcohol. I've been carded for gambling. I've even been carded for rated R movies.

But I've never been carded for cough syrup.

The other day, I was at the neighborhood Walgreens buying the generic brand of Robitussin DM for my cough when the cashier demanded to know my birth date. As I was uttering it, she asked me for my ID, which I produced. She studied my ID, gave it back and then rang up my cough syrup. "Do you need to be 18 to buy cough syrup?" I asked. She looked at me like I was a moron. "Yes."

I studied the ingredients of my Robitussin DM ("Wal-Tussin DM," actually). No codeine. No alcohol. No cocaine. So what the heck would a teenager do with cough syrup? I know you can make meth from Sudafed.

I did some research and one website stated:

Dextromethorphan is very often passed off as Ecstasy at clubs and Raves, it can also be found in many over the counter cold remedies such as Robitussin DM cough syrup. DXM produces hallucinations and a heavy "stoned" feeling in users but none of the desirable Ecstasy effects. DXM pills are wide-spread over the United States how ever it is usually misidentified as MDMA by users and police alike.

I did feel pretty mellow and sluggish today, like in a Keanu-Reeves-"Whoa"-kind of way. But have not been hallucinating. At any rate, I hope this entry doesn't spur people on to buy the DM to get high. It's not all that. Really.

Just a Number

I was sitting on a table in my doctor's office, wearing one of those humiliating light blue paper robes. It had been over a year since my last check-up. The doc sat in front of me on a stool, and asked me a bunch of questions about myself, like medical history, allergies, etc. Then she asked, "How many sexual partners have you had in the last year?" At first, I thought she was asking me how many sexual partners I had in my entire life, which if you think about it, is a very personal question. So I thought about it for a second, gave her an answer, and then later realized I was off by one (I overestimated). She put her folder away and began the physical exam. I resisted the temptation to say "Excuse me doctor, I was off by one, the number is actually X, not X + 1. Could you please go back into your office, retrieve my folder and correct that? Thanks." It seemed like too much effort over a miscalculation of 1. And the number was so small that it didn't seem to matter that much (see past blog entries where I complain about not getting any and how it's been a while).

Then I reflected over my Number. I don't think anyone, not even my vault of my most intimate and scandalous secrets, the Naysayer, knows. I remember how in my holy moly days, I wanted to wait until I got married. If I had, I'd be a 28-year-old virgin today. How different I would be... Well, knowing me, I'd have probably gotten married just so I could get some.

They say age is just a number. Is the Number just a number? Or does it reflect something about ourselves, in the present? A reformed mimbo (male bimbo) could have had 100 sexual partners in his life, but in the present be a monogamist; while another person could have had only two, but that's because she married the guy she lost her virginity to at age 13 and cheated on her husband last week with another guy. And a person with two one-night stands has less sexual experience than a person who has been in a long-term relationship with one person for five years.

So perhaps the Number doesn't truly reflect who you are as a person or your sexual practices in the present (how wonderful it would be if we could delete our "errors in judgment" from our memories and our Numbers?). Indeed people use the Number as a proxy for sluttiness and sexual prowess. Yet it's the sum of one's personal experiences that defines who one is, not a Number.

All that notwithstanding, I still want to correct that number in my doctor's folder.

Buzzkill

How long does it take for a buzz to wear off? An hour or two?

What about the emotional equivalent--the infatuation? A month or two? Or maybe three?

I suspect that my romantic buzz is wearing off. The beer goggles are coming off and things are starting to come into a hazy focus. The once beautiful person starts to revert to its hideously deformed state, and each flaw, plain as the sober eye can see, becomes very real...and repulsive.

Yay!....I think. It did feel good to be in like with someone. And when the like wears off, it's just this feeling of bleh. Still though, there is a sense of relief in knowing you're back to normal. Even if you are stuck with a stinging hangover.

Now

The mirror by the door was not a mirror by the door, it was an altar where he stood for only a moment to put on his cap before going out. The red rocking chair was a rocking of his own hips as he sat in the kitchen. Still, there was nothing of his -- his own -- that she could find. It was as if she were afraid she had hallucinated him and needed proof to the contrary. His absence was everywhere, stinging everything, giving the furnishings primary colors, sharp outlines to the corners of rooms and gold light to the dust collecting on table tops. When he was there he pulled everything toward himself. Not only her eyes and all her senses but also inanimate things seemed to exist because of him, backdrops to his presence. Now that he had gone, these things, so long subdued by his presence, were glamorized in his wake.

An excerpt from "Sula." Toni Morrison is an exquisite writer. It is exactly what I feel right now.

Yellow gal in the country

I spent the weekend with a gal pal and her family in a very very small town in a remote area of a certain Midwestern state. I don't view myself as a prissy little city girl (I drink Jack Daniels on the rocks and I like hole-in-the-wall diners). But I can't deny that I was a little scared when my friend and I stopped at a truck stop in the middle of rural America at 10:30 at night. The fifty-something-year-old waitress sported a well-coifed mullet and smoked a cigarette while she waited for our orders. The place was empty. The jukebox played a mournful country song. And we saw a couple guys by their pickup trucks standing by our car.

"This feels like a scene from a movie, doesn't it?" I asked my friend.

She smiled at me. "I'm used to it."

As a non-white person, I get very paranoid. I was warned by others that there are people in parts of the country who have never seen a minority -- EVER. I can't imagine going through my entire life and being exposed to only one race. People can be harmless-ignorant ("Do you know kung fu?") or mean-ignorant ("Go back to China"). So what would they do? Stare at me? Yell at me? Assault me?

My friend didn't help the situation by informing me she wouldn't have brought me along if I were African American. She told me that some of her family members in those parts still use a certain N word to refer to African Americans. My jaw dropped when she told me this and I started freaking out. "Don't worry," she assured me, "you're fine!" As in, "you" as an Asian.

Well, I came, I saw and I went...unscathed. The family was very friendly. No one asked me the "What are you?"/"Where are you from?" questions. I suppose I was treated like I was white, which is always a relief. I was also grateful to see other minorities speckled in the area (granted, there were only two others, but still).

So I admit, I'm more comfortable in a world of bums, lewd construction workers and pickpockets than a world of cornfields, dirt roads and 503 country stations. I guess that makes me a prissy little city girl.

A good thing

I'm not supposed to talk to you or see you anymore.

So I'm not.

I still check my email and cell phone every minute or so, hoping that maybe you'll breach our agreement and email or call me.

But you don't.

When I checked for the thousanth time today, I saw a new message. My heart skipped a beat. I clicked on the message.

It was Someone Else.

Someone Else asked me how I was doing. Someone Else asked how my weekend was. Someone Else asked me to dinner. I wondered why it was Someone Else. I wondered why it wasn't you.

This afternoon Jamba Juice was giving away free smoothies in my building. I thought of you and thought how perfect it could have been if I just called you and asked you if you wanted a smoothie. We could have met on our street corner, sat outside in the sunny eighty-degree weather, and chatted about nothing. You'd make me laugh like you always did. And I'd make you smile.

But we didn't.

And that, as we agreed, is a good thing. I hope.

None the wiser

My blog is exactly 1 year old. As I perused my past entries, I noticed that (a) I complain a lot, and (b) I obsess over boys. I suppose if I were perpetually happy and everything always went my way, there wouldn't be much to blog about. It'd be like, Entry 1: "Today I'm happy." Entry 2: "Today's a great day. Nothing went wrong." etc. Angst and drama are what make life interesting. Perhaps one day, I'll reach that I'm-perfectly-happy phase, when I'm an old granny and have all the answers to life figured out and realize that the ones I don't figure out don't even matter. The blog will be less than tantalizing, if even existent.

Until then, my angst-ridden blog continues.

Fancying the Brits

There's something about British sarcasm that is distinctly biting. Now I know Americans can be pretty sarcastic. But something about the way the Brits deliver their sarcasm is unparalleled. For example, I happen to like the British "The Office" better than the American one. The American one just doesn't have the same edge. I know NBC has to abide by certain FCC rules, while the British version has unbridled profanity and raunchiness. Still, there's just something about their humor that you just can't replicate with an American accent.

Anyway, I happened to stumble upon this UK ebay listing for a minivan. The bloke's responses to bidder inquiries are hilarious.

Story of my life

I was jogging by the water the other day, absentmindedly admiring the view, when I literally got caught in some guy's fishing line. As I pulled the fishing line out of my hair, the guy came over to help detangle me. It would have been a perfect pick-up situation if the guy wasn't a 49-year-old flabby man with a mullet. But he was. And he didn't even apologize.

Getting caught by the wrong guy's fishing line. Seems to be a recurring thing.

I'm with stupid

I think it's funny when you recognize your own relationship pattern, your friends recognize your relationship pattern, you realize you are repeating your relationship pattern, and you willingly repeat it, knowing full well it will end miserably.

I used to be hard on people who engaged in behavior or stayed in relationships they knew were wrong and doomed. Now I know there was obviously something else there, aside from logic and reason, that compelled them to do what they did.

Humans can be so brilliant and at the same time, so devastatingly stupid.

On guys

I've learned something new about guys. I've gone out with girl #1 once to a pool hall and girl #2 to a bar. Both times, guys chatted us up. Both times, guys lost interest in moments and left us alone. I wondered what it was. It couldn't have been that we were butt ugly, otherwise they never would have come up to us. Then it hit me: Guys don't like to be insulted/teased/emasculated.

I know that sounds so common sense. But the things that girls #s 1 & 2 did were SO subtle, so tiny, that I didn't even realize it was an insult until I pieced it together this morning on my commute.

With girl #1, the (cute) guy came up to us during our pool game, marveling at the strange sequence of moves that just occurred. I know none of the rules, but #1 knows them - and she corrected him. He said, "No I think it's this" and she, smiling sweetly all the while, said "No, I'm sure it's this. That's the rule." She gave him no out, no way to save face. And so he was like, "Oh okay." Then he walked away.

With girl #2, a (cute) guy touched my back and started chatting with me. Then his friend comes over. The guy went to a certain school in a certain city, and girl #2 jokingly teased his school/city. The guy defended himself, and she jokingly did not let it go and again, gave him no out, no way to save face. Not too soon thereafter, the guys "had to go."

So subtle digs can turn a guy off. And I will be the first to admit, subtle digs can hurt girls as well ("wow, are you sure that dress is the right size?" or "you actually get carded? weird...").

Another theory I have is that some guys don't like smart girls. They don't like girls who have graduate degrees. They don't like girls who are successful. I don't understand this. But the painful reality of this fact hit me when one night when I was in a bar. A guy started chatting with me. We were getting along fine when he asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a lawyer. He talked a little bit more. Then he turned around and walked away from me. Forever. Never to be seen again. See Sex & the City episode "Don't Ask Don't Tell," Season 3.

The Quest for Figuring Out Guys continues...

I asked for it

Perhaps more dangerous than asking a potentially blunt guy "Do you think I'm fat?" is asking someone who cards you "How old do I look?"

Went to a ball game last night. I got carded by the guy behind the stand. I asked him that oh-so-dangerous question, "How old do I look?" He turned around and asked an older woman behind him how old did she think I was.

"Hmm...31?" she said.

The guy studied my license for another five minutes, clearly unable to subtract 1977 from 2006. I did the math for him. "I'm 28."

"Oh woops, was I wrong?" the elderly hag asked. "I'm sorry... it's... just... that you act very mature for your age! Yeah..."

I mustered a half-patronizing smile and got my drink. Needless to say, I did not tip the guy. Not his fault, I know.

Now, for all you 31-and-over-year-olds - this is no offense to you. 31 is not 81. But imagine yourself as a 28 year old and being told you look 31.

Add to that, you're ASIAN and Asians are supposed to look young for their age. So she probably thought I was actually 45 and was being safe by guessing 31. Anyways, I went back to my seat and my friends made pathetic attempts to assauge my ego by concocting the wildest stories as to why she had no credibility and and how I don't look 31, reasons ranging from "She's probably drunk" to "She's a crazy old lady!"

Ah, friends. I wonder, where would we be without the sweet delusions of our friends?

Simple

Last Wednesday, I went to a little social at a bar. I met two guys. I chatted with one guy a bit more than the other guy. I gave both my number.

It's Monday. Both guys coincidentally contact me today.

Guy #1
My phone rings this afternoon. I see it's Guy #1. I pick up. We chat for a few minutes whereupon he asks me for my email address. I ask him what he's emailing me. He says he'd just like to email me. He then suggests that we get together some time. I say "Sure." Soon after our phone conversation, he emails me. I reply with a friendly email. He emails me back immediately. Up to the point he sends me his second email, I'm thinking, "Hey, he's cute, he seems nice... Potential."

Guy #2
He texts me this evening asking me how I am doing and when the next social is.

My psychological Seinfeld-ian self-sabotage:

Guy #1
In his second email, he inserted emoticons after every sentence. I'm not talking about :) or =D. I'm talking about the big cartoon yellow faces with exaggerated facial expressions after EVERY sentence, alternating between winks and toothy grins. I suddenly felt my interest level shrivel.

Guy #2
He was cute and very built. Like uber-muscular. And while I appreciate a nice build on a cute guy, I have this unjustified stereotype about guys who are very muscular, like that they're vain, cocky jerks. I know, I know--it's totally unfair. In addition to that, he texted me. If a gal gives a guy her number, the guy should call her. Texting is just impersonal and passive. Maybe he felt more hesitant towards me because I flirted much more with #1.

I know these reasons are totally stupid, nonsensical and Seinfeld-ian. I can't help but suspect that I'm looking for tiny flaws so I have an excuse not to date. I confess I haven't been as adventurous/open-minded as I usually am in these dating settings. So why the recent reluctance to give guys a chance?

I suspect that the Guy For Whom I Pine is holding me back. Not literally. I suppose I'm not letting myself let go of him. It's safer to pine for a guy you'll never have than to delve into a real situation where things can get complicated and feelings can get hurt. I suppose I am in a semi-dysfunctional "relationship" with the Guy For Whom I Pine because we feed into each other's feelings for each other without really fulfilling them. We don't get the full benefits (or burdens) of a real substantive relationship. It just feels simpler and nicer to like a guy who likes you back. Even if it is pointless.

God I need help. Maybe we all have a little Patricia in all of us.

Cute guy alert

This morning I got on the bus. I saw a cute Asian guy. (Why is his race relevant? the knee-jerk-liberal-reaction-prone-voice inside me asks. I don't know. It's just something I noticed.) He wasn't super hot. Perhaps six feet tall. Athletic build. Not so pretentious or gorgeous-looking as to render him totally out of my league, but cute enough in his striped button up shirt and charcoal slacks. Then I thought to myself: Prey identified. Now what?

Seriously.

How does one intiate contact in a random setting? In a bar or cocktail party, the assumption is that random people will chat with other random people. But on a bus or train or street, it's just random. Girl sees Boy. Boy sees Girl. Smile? Say "hi"? Walk up to him and ask him what time it is, while hiding your watch and cell phone and ignoring the huge clock towering across the street?

At any rate, I never saw Cute Guy before on my previous commutes... but perhaps I'll see him again. Maybe I'll concoct some excuse by then.

After all, fate is what you make of it.

Entrepreneurial amorality at its best (or worst)

The other day, a friend forwarded me a link to this company called the AlibiNetwork. It's a service that will go to all lengths to concoct alibis for you if you want to have a discrete affair, lie on your resume or even break up with someone without the messiness.

Some clips from their website:

Having a Discreet Affair?
We invent, create and provide alibis and excuses for attached adults involved in discreet relationships.

Impression Services?
What is your dream job? Would you like to create an impression that you have that job? How about having your own executive assistant?

Rescue Call Services?
The phone call from us to communicate any information you desire or to help you escape any situations such as dull meetings, bad dates or other unnecessary commitments that need to be cut short or cancelled.

Break Up?
Do you need to start a new relationship or stop an unwanted one without feeling uncomfortable?

-----
How crazy is this? I can't believe this service exists, but at the same, I am not surprised. There's definitely a demand for this kind of service, and it's the American capitalistic spirit to meet that demand in amoral style.

Fun

I am a walking motification.

Yesterday I wear a white shirt which I later discover to be translucent. Then it begins to rain.

Today I wear my black fitted pants, thinking I'm the shiznit. I happen to look at my rear end and upon closer inspection, realize there are white streak marks on my ass. It's 9 AM.

I can't wait til I see what happens tomorrow. A spaghetti string lands on my sleeve? A glass of wine on my lap? Who knows what future motifying events lay in store for me. Oh the adventures I'll see!

My #1 fan

Dear Obsessee,

I think I'm fallng in love with you. Yes, I know it's not real love because I've only known you for so long, but honestly I really do think I'm falling in love with you.

I am enamored with every thing you do, from the way you say "Hello?" when you pick up the phone, to the way your voice quivers when you say "Who is this? Answer me!"

I see you the next day and overhear you complain to your cubicle mate about some "psycho" who keeps prank calling you.

If psycho means being in love, then I am psycho. Psycho in love. If you only knew how much I think of you.

From the moment I open my eyes in the morning to the second I close them and in all the dreams in between, I think of only you. I know what train you take, which car you step on and off, what muffin you get at Au Bon Pan. You always pick the banana nut muffin with the most nuts.

Once I bumped into you and you smiled at me and said "Excuse me." I almost died.

So, my dear love, I write this letter to you and on behalf of all "psychos" out there who are madly, deeply in love--and really, we are not psycho. A random phone call here and there, a little harmless following you on the way home, a little Google-ing. Not psycho.

It's love, pure love. I'll be thinking of you. Always.

Love,
Your Obsessor

Funny

A clip on Star Wars fanatics, its offensive comment to Koreans notwithstanding.

A simple wish

Sometimes I wish I could take my mind, put it on a cutting board, incise the parts I don't like, and throw them out in the nearest waste bin. Then I could reinsert my modified mind into my head. That way, all the mortification, pain, brain farts, and drunk dials are removed forever. I'd be a bit lighter and a lot happier.

Oh the manity

My friend Patricia has no faith in what she calls "manity." ("humanity" minus the "hu," i.e. all men.) She is the cynic, the unapologetic pessimist when it comes to men. "They're all dogs," she repeats to me like a mantra. I however still believe that the Ones are out there, that the Ones are not dogs, and that one day I'll meet one of my Ones. She thinks I'm silly.

"There are no 'Ones,' " she says. "Just dogs."

I suspect that this belief underlies her embarking on an affair with her third married man. It is so odd--Patricia is perfectly fine in every respect except when it comes to men. When it comes to men, she has no conscience. Maybe it's because of her parents' bitter divorce during middle school, maybe it's because she later learned her father got another woman pregnant while her parents were still married, maybe it's because her last real boyfriend cheated on her. At any rate, she has a pretty low opinion of "manity."

I tell her she's smart, pretty, and funny--she can have any guy she wants. Why the married guys?

"It's not that I actively seek them out. The ones I happened to be immensely attracted to just so happen to be...married," she says to me matter of factly.

Married Man #3, however, gives her pause. "He has a family," she says to me. "A daughter. I saw her picture."

"Oh god," I say to her. "Please....just stop it."

"I know I know," she says, cupping her face in her hands. "I only saw that picture once, early on, before anything happened."

"Uh huh."

"Now, I keep seeing that girl in my mind. That girl reminds me of me," she says, "I think of my dad. And what my dad did. It kills me."

I nod at her.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?"

I don't know what to say to her. If I say "nothing," I'm lying. If I say "I don't know," I'd be acknowledging there was something fucking wrong with her. So I just look at her. "Patricia, you know what you have to do. You know what it was like, as the girl."

"Yes."

"So please stop it all. It took you like twenty years to forgive your dad and now you guys are finally speaking," I remind her.

"Yeah," she says.

"And aren't you and your dad doing something for Father's Day this Sunday?"

"Yeah," she says. Then her eyes light up and I instantly know she's thinking about Married Man #3. "But he's--he's--wonderful," she effuses. "God I'm fucked up."

I look at her. She is clearly in pain. I try to understand and not judge.

"Today he called me while he was driving," Patricia says.

"Uh huh."

"With her in the car."

"His wife?!"

"Worse," she says, "his daughter."

"Oh god."

"He tells me not to worry. She's falling asleep and she can't even understand what he's saying. She doesn't speak English, only Chinese. He and his wife speak to her only in Chinese." Patricia is an ABC -- American Born Chinese and apparently so is Married Man #3.

She continues, "They get to the park, and he opens the minivan door, with me still on the phone. And I hear this tiny voice squeal in the background. 'Is that her?' I asked him. 'Yeah,' he said. I heard what she said. 'Let's go!' in Mandarin. It was so cute, it fucking broke my heart."

"Patricia," I say.

"His wife is living the life I'll never have."

"What, a cheating husband?" I ask her. I look at her to make sure I didn't offend her too much. But she just nods.

I see her pattern. She is attracted to unavailable men. Maybe it's just easier to like an unavailable guy because that way, she could never get hurt and never get too vulnerable. Everything could be attributed to the fact that he was married. And she would never have to deal with the drama of a real relationship, of real love, which in her past has always been linked to pain and deceit. Who knows how anyone would've turned out had they had her childhood? Obviously, my constant lectures to her about the One or the Ones have been about as effective as her lectures to me on the Dog-dom of Manity.

"Patricia," I say, "you know I love you like a sister. I don't want you to get hurt. There is no way this can end well."

"I know." She sighs. I always envied her perfect oval face. Even at her most miserable, she was beautiful. I can almost discern the expression on her face at this moment; it was one of resignation and yielding, one in painful recognition of the fact that she will always be, out of choice, unhappy.

The craving

I went into the pastry shop. I wasn't supposed to, but I did.

I was not supposed to have any pastries of any sort. I knew the best way to avoid eating the pastries was to avoid the pastry shop altogether. But I entered it. I wanted pastries, and I figured the best way to satisfy my craving was to be as close to the pastries as possible without having any. (Behold the power of rationalization.) And so I entered the shop and was met with an indescribable aroma and sight of the delectable pastries. Samples were displayed invitingly in glass trays. A baker held a tray before me and asked me if I would like a bite, just one bite, that's all. He held the tiny clear toothpick in front of me, the end of which poked into a pastry bit. It had a golden flaky crust and a glistening filling. I took the toothpick in my hand and smelled the morsel. It was still warm from the oven.

What harm could one bite do? It was just one bite. Could I live with the guilt?

"Now that you have it, you'll have to try it," the baker mused. "Otherwise we throw it out since you touched it."

Oh that would be a waste, I thought to myself. Might as well have it... Think of the starving children in Africa...

I brought it to my lips and the warm filling just glazed my upper lip when I stopped. It was right there in front of me, but I suddenly felt weird. I wasn't in the mood to have pastries. It didn't feel right. I gave the toothpick back to the baker and laughed sheepishly. "I gotta go," I said, and promptly ran out of the shop.

After I left, I could feel my heart still beating. How close was that? I asked myself. I was somewhat relieved that I avoided giving in, but at the same time, guiltily disappointed that I didn't have any, when I could have, just a little, and no one would have been the wiser.

Avoid the pastry shop I could hear my conscience and my friends' voices in my head say.

But I can't. I don't want to. Perhaps the reason I walk by that shop and step in "just to look around" is the craving itself rather than the pastries. How odd it is that an unfulfilled craving can be just as exquisite as the craved thing itself.

Fun stuff

Obsession is an interesting phenomenon. It's so easy to label it and judge it when you are not amidst it. But once you are possessed by it, you become unrecognizable. Everything you perceive becomes a tangent to the obsession. A candy wrapper on the floor. A typo. An obese woman in a muumuu. Every event is some reminder, some link to the obsessee. It's fascinating really.

And then all the songs you hear on the radio transform into the story of your life, even though you know the composer did not have you in mind at all when composing the song.

Obsession is also interesting in that it completely eliminates your ability to function as a human being. Your eating habits, your exercise routine, your time hanging out with friends, your work ethic, your ability to read for more than five minutes straight--all of these dwindle down to nothing and your obsession takes a seat in their place. Projects and assignments are divided into one-minute concentration spans, separated by twenty minute musings over the obsessee. Charts, graphs, words, sentences drift into a hazy unfocus. And that crack in the ceiling has never been so mesmerizing.

Indeed, obsession is fascinating. You live off the high of wanting more of something but can't have. It makes you sick, and you know you're sick, but you can't help it. Life and everything including yourself seem to swirl around the one, simple object - the obsession.

Amusing

My friend recently lent me the soundtrack to "The Wedding Singer." For some reason, being able to listen to "Blue Monday" and "Pass the Dutchie" from the same CD is incredibly amusing.

The song

She walked to the office on a Sunday morning. A uniformed man in his booth ate a powder donut. Cars paused at red lights and old ladies with white poodles ambled past her. Her headphones filtered out the city noise and all she could hear was the wistful melody of the song she had on repeat. She felt distant from her life, like a detached audience member watching the movie of someone else's biography. These were her feet walking and her skin straining to keep everything inside. Yet she floated on thoughts of her sweet addiction. She thought of him.

She imagined him listening to the song. She wondered what he would be thinking. It would answer all of his questions and explain everything she's been feeling. Then she wondered if he was even thinking of her this moment, or if she was a mere afterthought to his real life.

The light turned green and she crossed the street to her office. She took the elevator, walked to her desk, and turned off the song. Life resumed.

Finish it

Her boss paused in front of her desk at 6:33 PM. She sat there amidst piles of paper, post-its and pens and looked at him. "Is something wrong?" he asked her.

For a moment, she considered telling him everything that was wrong in her life, her hangover, her embarrassing drunken behavior the night before, her self-induced romantic problems. But that would be unprofessional, she concluded and instead perked up, smiled and replied, "No, nothing's wrong."

She turned back to the screen and stared at the words and the unfinished sentence. The cursor blinked at her. She was in control, wasn't she? Why did she feel like she wasn't?

Mr. Wrong was wrong, wrong wrong wrong. He interfered with her thinking, her self-respect, her work, even her colleagues. She tried to stop wanting him. Then she didn't want to stop. They had talked, analyzed, rationalized, moralized, fantasized, and chastised. It all became a blur in their minds and they weren't thinking clearly in the haze. Something inside each of them was telling them do something, while everything else was telling them not to. It was so exhausting. It would be easier to stop fighting it, stop thinking, and just relent to what they could not deny.

Wrong wrong wrong, she thought to herself.

The cursor continued to blink at her. If she made a mistake, she could erase it easily. An incorrect keystroke would only exist in her mind then. It would be nothing more than a memory of something insignificant. But she would know it had happened, even if it was erased.

I don't know, she thought. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at the clock. 6:37. She turned back to the screen and watched the cursor flicker curiously against the white backdrop of her screen. She knew how to finish the sentence. She just had to do it. And so she placed her fingers over the keyboard and began to type.

Thanks Satan

I'm feeling particularly low this Tuesday evening. Today was an unproductive day. It's one of those useless days where you know you have stuff to do but you just can't bring yourself to do it. Perhaps my day turned bad when I got on the bus on my way to work this morning and sat on a particular seat. It felt cold. Very cold. I touched it and realized it was soaked wet. I got up, pants soaked through, to change to a dry seat. Then a blond haired girl comes on the bus and was about to sit down on that very seat when everyone at once yelled "That seat's wet!" Had I been blond, would everyone have warned me? Or did they assume I no speak Engrish? Then I felt guilty for assuming everyone's racist, just like the typical self-victimizing minorities in the U.S. So I alleviated that guilt by concluding it was probably because I was ugly.

I get to work. Having just moved into a new apartment, I need to set up phone service. Because the phone company is only open during the day, I have to call during work hours. I'm on the phone with them for literally an hour. All I want is basic service. They try to cajole me and emotionally blackmail me into getting more. I don't. Then they say my apartment isn't listed. Apt. 1, 2, and 4 is listed. But not 3, which is me. How neat! I then enter this Kafka-esque world of setting up phone service, where they can't give me phone service unless I let them in, but I can't let them in because my landlord isn't available at that time, and when I try to set the right time, they won't set the time because I don't have an order number which was never given to me in the first place. They can't find my order number and so they can't come in and so I can't get phone service. Oh but my order number will be on my $60 bill. It's so nonsensical it's funny.

On top of that, the Guy For Whom I Once Pined called me twice. I didn't pick up. I didn't even begin to indulge the where-are-all-the-good-guys stream of thought, because, quite frankly, I didn't feel like exerting the effort.

Then at the end of the day, my boss totally rips on me in front of other people by calling me an idiot because I don't know X, and I had no comeback because, um, I didn't know X.

So here I am. Blogging. Being totally self-indulgent. And useless.

Out of sight out of mind?

The Guy For Whom I Pine has since my last blog entry called me and emailed me. When my phone rang, I didn't recognize the number and picked it up. It was he. I can't deny that I was pleased that I had the excuse of not knowing it was he before I picked up and got to hear his voice. He immediately confessed to breaching our agreement. I told him I had to do something and hung up the phone, ending it with the "I'll talk to you later"-farewell. When I got his email, I realized that the I'll-talk-to-you-later line may have been construed literally.

My friend firmly told me that he is being manipulative by putting me in this position. I feel rude for not calling him back and for not replying to his email; but she asserted he is being rude for creating the situation in the first place. I relented to her logic and have resisted calling him or emailing him.

I feel that some of the allure is fading. Perhaps his persistence in violating our agreement and not taking the situation seriously are the causes. At any rate, I hope to maintain my hiatus despite my weakness for irresistibly charming men.

God, what would we do without our friends to support us or bitchslap us when we need it?

I'm laughing on in the inside

Life is funny.

It turns out that the Guy For Whom I Pine -- whose taboo status is not entirely unlike that of a certain best friend's ex-boyfriend -- has appeared to develop some feelings for me as well. At first, we thought we could just be friends. Two people can be incredibly attracted to each other, have great chemistry, and know that the feeling is mutual without resorting to jumping each other, right? Well, according to both of our confidants, "no." A drink after work, a misplaced hand, a loose tie that begs to be fixed. Each instance of seemingly casual contact is the tip of a very slippery -- and very inviting -- slope. And it would be so easy to descend down that wonderful slope into what we want but shouldn't have.

So after a very frank discussion with the Guy For Whom I Pine, we concluded that our confidants were right -- we couldn't continue to be friends without being faced with temptation. So we are going cold turkey. Nothing. No contact at all.

It's very difficult. It's like a dessert you can't have. Before you knew you couldn't have it, but you liked to look at it, smell it, listen to and watch the chef make it before your eyes. Each walk into the pastry shop and each sensory input reminded you how wonderful it would taste if you only had a smidgen. And now, not only can you not have it, but you can't even want it. You can't enter the pastry shop at all or even read the menu posted in its window. The dessert is now an idea in your head, a memory of collected sensory input, a thing that shifts and pulses inside your very wild imagination.

Last night, the Guy For Whom I Pine violated one of the rules by emailing me. It was one sentence: "this sucks." I resisted the urges to reply and call. I just sat there, feeling both exhilarated and dejected.

Another time, another place, perhaps something great could have happened. But it isn't that time or place. It's here and now. And here and now sucks.

A walk

The air was cool and moist. The sky was a placid gray. She had told the people at work she would only be stepping out for a minute. Maybe she had said "a few minutes." But one minute turned into five. Five turned into ten. Ten turned into twenty. Twenty minutes with him. Next to him.

She noticed the nape of his neck, the clean taper of his haircut.

"Did you get a haircut?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"When?"

"Last night."

"Ah."

"Why?"

"I just noticed it and figured you got a haircut."

"Okay."

They walked along the water, watched the blue ripples lap against the wooden docks and talked about nothing. There were things she wanted to say, things she wanted to do. But her skin held it all in. She let the air between them circulate around her and him uselessly. She held her spine straight so that her back would not buckle under the weight, that thick heavy weight that bore on her mind. She watched him speak his words the same way he walked, careful, articulate and perfect.

Then they went back to the office.

"This was nice," she said, looking at his face.

"Yeah it was," he replied. "I gotta get back to my desk."

"Oh, okay."

"Bye," he said and walked away.

"Bye," she said.

Just wrong

Last week I talked about having balls. I had given a random guy my number on Saturday May 20. After I hadn't heard from him by the following Thursday, I gave up. I resisted writing another self-deprecating, woe-is-single-me entry in this blog and just went on my merry way pining after an elusive guy. Then this last Saturday at 9:12 PM, I get a voicemail message from the guy asking me what I was up to this weekend. Saturday night. 9:12 PM. My friend was like, "Two words: Booty call." Obviously he didn't care for me enough to call me earlier in the week. I wasn't that crazy about him to begin with. And it didn't help that he called me by the wrong name. So I thought, "Screw it."

The following Monday, he calls me again, leaving me a message asking me if I want to grab dinner later or have lunch that week. I ignore it.

Tuesday around noon, he calls me again. No message.

Wednesday (today) he calls me AGAIN. No message.

I'm confused. The guy waits 7 days to call me (and yes, maybe his mom died, his phone was dropped in the toilet, all the cellular towers in the city exploded at the same time, etc.). Then he leaves two messages and calls me twice after that. Not to mention, he calls me by the wrong name. Something tells me he's not one of the Ones.

Why is it that all the right guys are wrong and all the wrong guys are wrong?

The professor

Professor Lee had a B.S. from Cal Tech, a masters from Stanford, and a PhD from Harvard. Professor Lee could calculate the speed of any subatomic particle of every element in his head and wax philosophical the wonders of the quark and antiquark. Yes, Professor Lee knew a lot. But he didn't know everything.

Professor Lee didn't know that every morning, the girl woke up and murmured a prayer to Whomever Was Up There requesting that Professor Lee fall madly deeply in love with her.

Professor Lee didn't know that the girl applied cherry-red lip gloss before every class.

Professor Lee didn't know that the girl dressed up and dolled herself up before venturing anywhere, whether it be the supermarket or the club, just in case she bumped into him.

Professor Lee was tall and lean with almond shaped eyes, smooth olive skin and a handsome, kind face. He wore black spectacles that always sat precariously at the edge of his nose when he called on students. The girl made sure to participate just enough to convey enthusiasm but not so much to be annoying. He was always so serious and stern with his even voice and reserved hand gestures.

"I wonder what's he's like in bed," the girl said to her friend.

"Ew," the friend said. "What is with your attraction to odd, ugly or weird guys?"

"He's not ugly! He's...eccentric," she said dreamily.

"Whatever."

One of her office hours fantasies went as follows:

[Soft knock on the door]

"Come in."

[Slowly opens the door] "Hi Professor Lee."

"Hello, come sit down."

"You know, Professor Lee, there's something I have to tell you."

"Oh?"

"I...I...I have always been in love with you, from the moment I saw you pull down that periodic table and point to hydrogen with your laser pointer." [Dramatic pause.] "I hope that's not too forward of me to say..."

"No...you see, I know already."

"You know?"

"Yes."

"But how?"

"Because. I'm Professor Lee."

"Oh, of course."

"And I must confess..."

"Yes?"

"I am already madly in love with you. You are everything I could want in a woman."

"I am?"

"Yes...ever since I saw you in the first row in the first day of class with your text book opened to page 1."

"Oh..."

"But this can never happen. I am your professor and you are my student."

"Alas, so true, so true."

"For now, we must resume our lives as if we never knew the truth."

"You mean live lives of lies and abject misery."

"More or less."

"So be it."

[The girl stands up to leave and then pauses.] "Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Unless I temporarily decide drop the class and just jump you now."

[Professor Lee looks at the girl. The girl looks at Professor Lee. He pauses and performs perhaps the most complex calculation in his head.] "Fair enough."

[Door locks.]

--Fantasy ends--Reality begins--

The girl looked at her watch. Ten minutes to three. She opened up her make-up kit and pulled out the cherry red lip gloss.

How paradoxical

Am being obsessive and lazy. Sounds like a paradox, doesn't it? How about another one: the more you try to avoid thinking about something, the more you end up thinking about it (or him). So you might as well relent to the mind and think about it, right? You'd think that revisiting the same subject over and over again in your mind would grow tiresome. Yet there are a variety of factors to manipulate, like the conversations had (or not had), colors of shirts worn, events that may have happened or have yet to happen. The mind can be so monotonous and at the same time absurdly inventive.

Enough with the paradoxes. A little off-switch would be nice.

Inside my head part 2

I keep thinking, 'Okay the next time I'll see him, he'll turn me off, or he'll do something revolting. ' Like maybe eat salad with his fingers. Open his napkin after blowing his nose in it. Sneeze on my drink.

But he doesn't.

Instead he's perfectly charming. Funny. Witty. He's got an adorable smile. And table manners to boot.

God I hate it.

I hate that I have so much fun with him, that I lose track of time when I'm with him, that I feel like I can talk to him about anything, that I pretend we're on a date when we're having lunch or walking down the street together. Most of all, I hate knowing that he can never, ever see me in that way.

So I just saw him now. We were just strolling on the sidewalk in the beautiful weather when my right hand accidentally brushed against his left hand. He literally recoiled, like I was some kind of hideous leper. Then he kept his hand firmly at his side to avoid future contact with me.

Right now it's starting to hurt. I was on the phone with him, listening to him, and then it struck me that I was being delusional. It totally bummed me out.

What's the point of meeting someone you connect with when there's absolutely no hope?

Inside my head

I know he's there, smirking. "Would you mind leaving?" I say.

"No, I don't mind," he says. He doesn't budge.

"So would you?"

"Hm let me think about it, no."

"Please."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

I am getting annoyed. "Because?"

"Because I'm here."

"Look," I say, "I can't get any work done unless you leave. And I have a load of work to do."

"Not my problem."

"Actually it is your problem because you're beginning to annoy me."

"You're not annoyed. You like me."

"Whatever."

"That's not a denial."

"Whatever!"

"I win."

"Okay you win. Now get out." He shrugs at me.

I start re-reading the computer screen for the fifteenth time.

"I'm still here," he says.

"No you're not. You're gone," I say.

"If I'm gone, then why am I still here?"

"Because you're annoying."

I concentrate on the screen. I scroll my mouse. I highlight text with my cursor.

"Sixteenth time and counting?" he lilts.

"Shut up."

"I can't help that you think I'm irresistable. I'm actually pretty flattered."

"Shut up."

"How long before you get sick of thinking of me?"

"Shut up."

"You know if the real me had any idea how much you thought of me, I think I'd be a bit freaked out."

"Shut up."

"Fine fine. I'll leave for now."

"Thank you."

"You'll get your 3 minutes of work done, and then I'll be back."

I look at him and sigh. "I know."

What's in a name?

From time to time, I think of names I'd like to name my kids. No I'm not pregnant, it's just one of those things I muse over when I'm standing idly in the supermarket checkout line or waiting for the train to come.

I know I'd like to have 1 boy and 1 girl. I nonetheless have picked out several names for each sex. For some reason, the old school biblical names strike a chord with me. I know I will name at least one son Joseph. And though it's really old school and rare, I really really like the name Isaac. It sounds so masculine and unique, and it also means "laughs" or "he who laughs" in Hebrew. Then I like Jacob. As for girls, I like Rachel and Sarah, which to me sound pure, simple and feminine.

I know I know--I'm not terribly original. If anything, I'm being reactionary. And with all the names and different meanings out there, I have no excuse. Still, a gal can't help liking what she likes.

Stop

I seem to be falling hopelessly in like with this one guy. And it is oh-so-unrequited. It's somewhat depressing because nothing can ever happen between us (for reasons along the lines of him being gay, being a celibate monk, being married, being repulsed by me). I have fun hanging out with him, and the more time I spend with him, the more I like him. So I'm beginning to think I should limit my contact with him. Granted, there is the school of thought that says it's better to maximize one's time with the unrequited like than to deprive oneself. But what's the point in allowing oneself to fall more in like with someone when there is absolutely no hope? Isn't that torturing oneself?

It's such a paradox. I'm happy when I'm with him. And I'm sad when I'm with him.

Waiting for nothing

Though anatomically impossible, a gal can have balls. I may be afraid of roaches. I don't like to touch the subway pole on the train. But sometimes I have random acts of braveness.

I was at a bar with my girlfriend for someone's birthday. I went up to visit the ladies' room. I came back and saw a guy sitting in my spot chatting her up. He was about to get up but I, not wanting to bust their groove, insisted he stay there while I get a drink. I looked at the bar and searched for gaps between idling patrons to hail the bartender to order a drink. There were two visible gaps. One was near a group of guys and girls chatting with each other. The other was near a guy standing by himself, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. From a distance in the dim room, the guy looked semi-cute. I walked toward gap #2.

I stood there. He stood there. He kept reaching across me to tap his cigarette into the ash tray right in front of me. Come on, that's an in, I thought. He didn't say anything. He eventually drew the ash try closer to him and continued being mute. I ordered my drink, waited there and "looked around the room" -- a.k.a. turned my head to check him out up close. He passed the Up Close Test.

I got my drink, paid for it and started to sip on it. Okay you've had a few drinks. Just talk, I thought to myself. I turned to him. "So are you here for the birthday thing?" I said. He looked at me. "Um, no I'm just here to have a beer and chill."

"Oh I see," I said.

"Who's the birthday thing for?"

"That girl"--I pointed--"but I only know her through that girl"--and pointed again.

"I see."

And so we struck up a conversation, asking and answering the trite introductory questions like Are you from the city? What do you do? Where are you from? Do you come to this bar a lot? Seemed like a cool guy.

At the end of the night, there was a new entry in his phone: Yellow Gal.

Now if only he would call me.

Robert

I know a lawyer named Robert. Robert is one of my pseudo-friends--i.e. one of those guys with whom I will be completely cordial and whom I utterly despise. I maintain my pseudo-friendship with him solely because he entertains me. My life, as of late, has been boring, and so I glean amusement from others' horribleness.

Every so often Robert will interview a candidate for a position at his firm. He typically interviews law students looking for their first job or junior associates who are looking to make a lateral move to another large firm. Most lawyers would be annoyed by having to interview people especially when they have a huge deal/case/project/memo/opinion on their plate. Robert, however, is different.

He selects candidates for interviews based on how "hot" they sound.

"How can you tell someone is hot from their resume?" I asked him once.

"Look at their activities and what school they went to," he said.

"For example?" I said.

"For example, girls from schools in the south and the west coast are generally hotter. University of Texas and UCLA have the highest concentration of hotties."

"Uh huh," I said, knowing full well that Robert knew I did not go to a southern or west coast school. "Go on."

"As for activities, drama club ladies are usually hot," he mused, "but it's all a gamble."

"I see."

Robert is on a committee, so not all the candidates selected for interviews will be based on Robert's Criteria of Hotness. Yet upon the receipt of his stack of resumes, he puts a preliminary number on the upper right hand corner of each female candidate's resume, indicating his prediction as to the candidate's Hotness Level.

As I was sitting in his office, Robert pulled out a resume with a "7" on the corner. "University of Arizona," he said, "but she's in a choir. That can be a toss-up."

He pulled out another resume with a "2." "University of Chicago and bowling," he sighed.

Robert then interviews these candidates and bases his recommendation on the accuracy of his prediction of the candidate's Hotness Level. The "2" from University of Chicago would get a stronger recommendation if in fact, she was a 2 on a scale of 1 to 10. "This rule can be bent for those in the 9-10 range," he qualified. "There was one girl," he laughed, "who was an idiot. She said her main motivation in becoming a lawyer was making money so she could afford her expensive gym membership."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but she was a 10 so I strongly recommended we hire her."

"Wow. Classy."

"Yep," he said.

I wonder, what would the world be like without all the Roberts to fill it?

Vacancy

I was lying in bed this morning, still slightly groggy from the night before. For an inexplicable reason, I reached with my hand to the other side of the bed and just felt the cool empty bedsheet next to me. This is the life of a single girl, I thought. That being, sleeping on the left side of the bed with a vacancy on the right. For a moment, the observation struck me as somewhat sad.

Yet as I remind myself, this vacancy -- in my bed, in my life -- could easily be filled if I so desired. I could have been married by now to someone I didn't love, had kids, lived in a modest home, and maybe not be deliriously happy, but be minimally content. It would be a satisfactory life. And perhaps I'm being unrealistic in wanting something more.

The night before I was chatting with a rather cute guy at a club. A little scruff on his face. Dimples. And a little odd, which I confess intrigued me more. At the end of the night, I told him I was leaving. He then asked me if I wanted "some company."

Some company.

Of course I always want "some company." But not just any company. I want the real company. The kind that means something.

So I told him I was just going to go home and catch up on sleep. I still gave him my number (is it a red flag that a guy asks a girl if she wants "some company" three hours after meeting her? Nah.). Maybe we'll grab lunch this week. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter as I suspect he is not one of the Ones.

The point is, if I wanted to fill in that vacancy, I could have filled it. And this morning when I woke up and felt the empty space next to me, I know I could have had "some company" right next to me (unless of course he bolted before the crack of dawn). I suppose I want something more extraordinary that just some company, more meaningful than just filling in a vacancy. I suppose I just want something more.

Friday

It was 7:45 AM, and like 99% of the people on this planet, she woke up this morning with a general feeling of bleh. Not quite icky, not quite blah. Just bleh. It clouded the rest of the day, from when she brushed her teeth, to her commute to work, to the entire workday.

The redeeming moment of this day arrived in an email from a certain male friend. He had forwarded her something about some nearby music event and asked her if she wanted to go during their lunch breaks. She of course said yes, and so after shooting a few emails back and forth, they decided to meet up at 11:55 AM and go to the event. Within the first five minutes of arriving, they realized it was pretty lame, and so they decided to just grab lunch. Lunch was pleasant and they chatted a bit. Then they went back to work at 1:10 PM.

She had planned on having an after work drink with this girl but the girl called at 2:05 PM to tell her she couldn’t make it. The after work drink was her only plan for this Friday night. She hung up the phone and turned back to her computer screen, realizing that her Friday night would be a menage a trois with her, her computer, and her work.

Then at 4:30 PM her phone rings. It’s the same certain male friend. Seeing his name light up on her phone momentarily startled her from her feeling of bleh.

She flipped open the phone. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said.

“How are you?”

“Good.”

“Good,” she said.

“Look, I’m looking for a present for someone. Do you have time after work to help me?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Okay cool, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. When and where do you want to meet up?”

“How about 5, on the corner of 53rd and Fifth?”

“Sure,” she said. “See you then.”

“See ya.”

They hung up. Thirty minutes. Thirty more minutes until this strung up version of bleh lapsed and she could meet her certain male friend.

At 5:00 PM, she sees him on the corner, standing patiently with his hands in his pockets. She walks over to him and smiles. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back.

The two friends went shopping on Fifth Avenue. They went in and out of stores, perused items, talked to store clerks, admired certain things and disregarded others. She peppered him with advice which he gladly accepted. Finally he settled on the thing he needed. The item was purchased, boxed and wrapped.

It was about 7:00 PM and they walked towards the train.

“Thanks so much for helping me with this,” he said smiling.

“Sure, no problem.”

“I owe you a lunch,” he said to her.

“Yeah, you do,” she smiled.

They stood outside the subway entrance. “Have a good weekend,” he said.

“You too. Bye.”

He waved to her and walked away.

There really was no point to this story, except to say that her interaction with this certain male friend was the highlight of her day. That, and the fact that he was married and the something he was buying was a gift for his wife.

The ultimate best comeback ever

is worth little if it is thought of three days after the fact.

Come here often?

Recently a guy came up to me in a bar and uttered this line to me. I thought this line was an urban legend, a joke, a mockery of the real pick-up line. But he wasn't joking.

"No this is my first time here," I responded. Then I felt compelled to ask him the same question, "So do you come here often?" He replied something along the lines of "Yeah once in a while." And that was pretty much the end of that conversation.

I haven't encountered too horrible pick-up lines. This is of course excluding the lewd catcalls of drunken obnoxious men. I think the most effective and unassuming line is a simple "Hi." If a guy just walks up to a gal and says "Hi," there's no ulterior motive or hidden agenda. The purpose of his "Hi" is obvious - to talk to the gal, to initiate conversation. It shouldn't be sheepish or smarmy, but confident and friendly. The girl will inevitably respond "Hi" back. Depending on the girl's interest level, she will either continue to face him and smile, or turn her back to him/walk away from him/go to the restroom. It's all very simple and straightforward.

What happens after that, however, is another story.

The procrastinator

She went to work every day, Sunday through Saturday. It was a welcome escape from her messy apartment, from her unlucky love life, from pending bills and unreturned phone calls. Her work was nonjudgmental. Pure effort and thought with a dash of schmoozing led to the validation she needed. Everything else was uncertain and damning. She knew things needed to be done outside of work. The nagging persisted in the back of her mind. And perhaps in time she would relent. But now she liked sitting in her office amidst her stapled and opened Word documents, sorting through her thoughts and typing into her soft touch keyboard. Life can after all be procrastinated.

Mother's Day

Phone rings.

Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hi mom."
Mom: "Oh hello."
Me: "Happy Mother's Day!"
Mom: "Oh thank you..."
Me: "Hope you have a good day today."
Mom: "Hopefully soon you find a man to marry so you can be a mother soon."
Me: [thinking] Um.. Happy Mother's Day!
Mom: [continuing] "Hopefully soon you have baby so you have mother's day."

I can always count on my mom to remind me that: (a) I am not married, and (b) I don't have a baby. It's almost endearing. You gotta love her.

What would we all do without our mothers?

Bailamos

My girlfriend and I went to our first salsa class this week. I was a bit apprehensive, as I suspected the class would be full of women and no men. It turned out to be a blast--there was an even fit of men and women, everyone was our age, and the boys were cute. It was so much fun to dance the steps and the instructor was funny, articulate and enthusiastic. I catch myself practicing my beginner salsa moves on the train, in my apartment, walking down the street. I can't wait until my girlfriend and I go into a salsa club looking like the biggest gringos (my girlfriend is white, and I heard Asians are considered gringos as well), and then bust out our newly minted salsa moves. All will be awed, hot guys will want to dance with us, and the night will end with everyone applauding and cheering.

Okay maybe not, but a gal can dream can't she?

Yuppie idiot

I just paid $3.02 for a tall nonfat Tazo green tea from Starbucks.

Irony

At 5:02 in the morning, a man in my apartment building screams at the top of his lungs, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" effectively waking up the entire building.

Behold the Power of Woman

I was researching an issue when I happened to come upon a case where the judge made the following observation on women:

The literature of all countries in all languages and in all civilizations since the Garden of Eden is replete with the lures, the enticements, the inducements and the temptations used by womankind to lead, control, direct, influence and, indeed, to confound man. Their use has not been either universally malignant or universally benign.

Who knew I harbored so much power to confound men? All this time I thought they were confounding me.

Why orc why?

I confronted my friend as to why he set me up on a blind date with an orc from "Lord of the Rings." He said he thought we'd get along. Then I asked him questions along the lines of: Do you think the guy is genuinely attractive looking? ("On a scale of one to ten, he's a 6.") Do I look like an orc? ("No.") Are we both on differing yet similar levels of orc-ness? ("No, you are definitely more attractive...")

Of course my friend isn't going to tell me I look like an orc, nor is he going to tell me that I exceed my blind date's orc-ness. I think I made my friend feel really bad because then he began sputtering that I was "hot" and he wanted to "show [me] off." It didn't make any sense and so made me suspect that my friend does in fact think I'm an orc. Maybe I should change my blog title to Yellow Orc.

My etymological conclusion

I used to think it was called "blind date" because the two blindly go on the date or go on the date having no idea what the other person looks like, i.e., as if they were blind.

I now suspect two other reasons for it being called "blind date": (1) After seeing your date, you wish you were blind, and (2) After seeing your date, you go blind.

A tiny headline

For some reason, this tiny headline on the New York Times made me very sad:

Last American Titanic Survivor Dies at 99

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
Published: May 7, 2006
Filed at 1:54 p.m. ET

BOSTON (AP) -- Lillian Gertrud Asplund, the last American survivor of the sinking of the Titanic in 1912, has died, a funeral home said Sunday. She was 99.

Asplund, who was just 5 years old, lost her father and three brothers -- including a fraternal twin -- when the ''practically unsinkable'' ship went down in the North Atlantic after hitting an iceberg.

She died Saturday at her home in Shrewsbury, said Ronald E. Johnson, vice president of the Nordgren Memorial Chapel in Worcester, Mass.

Asplund's mother and another brother, Felix, who was 3, also survived the Titanic sinking in the early morning of April 15, 1912.

Random Saturday night

A friend and I had a drink last night and then stopped by a party at a bar. The scene at the party encapsulated my dating experience overall: All the guys either were gay or had girlfriends.

One of the guys I met was half Asian and half white. We were chatting, all flirty, leaning into each other, giggling, etc. Then my friend taps on my shoulder and whispers to me, "Yo, he has a girlfriend, she's right behind him, and he doesn't date Asian women."

Doesn't date Asian women? The Halfie was just telling me what Asian ethnicities he's dated before. It never occurred to me that a half Asian half white guy could have an actual distaste towards Asian women. And it threw me off that he was flirty with me (or letting me be flirty with him). I suppose if there are Asians who only date white people, and white people who only date white people, then it shouldn't surprise me that there are half half-people who only date their one half.

At any rate, when I bumped into him later that night and started chatting with him, his tall blonde girlfriend came scampering along, wrapped her arm neatly around his waist, leaned her head on his shoulder and smiled at me. I smiled back at her, introduced myself to her and shook her hand. (Aren't I the politest girl? At least as polite a girl can be after unknowingly flirting with a spoken-for guy.)

My friend and I left before midnight, seeing the utter lack of prospects. I ended the night by eating an entire small pizza (incidentally, a great way to stave off a hangover).

All in all, a random Saturday night.

Epiphany

When a friend tells you, "I'm going to set you up with someone who is right for you," the presumption is that the someone is comparable in intelligence, personality, and attractiveness. When you meet this someone and see that he is less than attractive, a few theories come to mind:

1) Your friend thinks you're unattractive and so sets you up with a similarly unattractive person.
2) You overestimated your attractiveness and are in fact unattractive. Your friend then sets you up with a similarly unattractive person.
3) Your friend thinks the unattractive person is in fact attractive, so in your friend's mind, the friend has set you up with a similarly attractive person.
4) Your friend knows that the person is less than attractive, but that person's personality, sophistication, and success will more than compensate for his appearance.

I will be the first to admit that to be in relationship with someone, I have to be able to at least entertain the mere possibility of being able to get it on with the guy. If the prospect of being physical with someone sickens me because he resembles an orc from "Lord of the Rings," then chances are we will not succeed as a couple.

Hmm. Maybe I've resembled an orc this whole time and never knew it. In which case, I'd have to thank my friend for leading me to this epiphany.

Lame Asian Moment

Six Asians are squished in a Lexus. The radio is on. "A Little Respect" by Erasure comes on. Six Asians freak out, turn up the radio to maximum volume, open the windows and sun roof, and drive through the city.

White passerby stare into car, confused by Six Asians' obsession with 90's new wave music.

Six Asians decide to turn down the music and close the windows. Six Asians suddenly feel lame.

Biz

I've been busy with work. You know work is keeping you busy when:

1) you are working on a Friday night en Cinco De Mayo,
2) you have to work the following Saturday and Sunday, and
3) you calculate the number of alcoholic drinks you can consume on Friday night and Saturday night based on your having to work on the following Saturday and Sunday.

I'm not complaining though. At least the work itself is interesting. All I know is there's going to be a margarita tonight with my name on it.

Another yellow gal's rants

I finally found someone interested in seeing Margaret Cho with me. The Naysayer tentatively agreed to cross various state lines to watch the show. Recently I saw Ms. Cho's DVD, "Assassin" which was filmed in D.C. It's interesting--I don't agree with everything she says, but she is so charismatic that I feel like I want to. Before watching the DVD, I considered myself a liberal moderate / moderate liberal. But dang, that woman is LIB-bral. A couple things she said:

o Bush would be Hitler...if he applied himself.
Disagree. Bush is not trying to annihilate an entire population of people via mass executions and concentration camps. I mentioned this to the Naysayer (who is Jewish) and surprisingly, he didn't entirely disagree with Ms. Cho. The N said that while Bush may not be advocating genocide, his political tactics in suppressing those who disagree with him, violating civil rights, and hating Muslims (to name a few) are akin to Hitler's. Bold statement.

o People who enjoy the show "Will and Grace" but are against gay marriage are lame/stupid/hypocritical. She said you can't pick and choose what you enjoy out of gay culture and leave the burden of their discrimination to them.
I never thought of this, but she has a point. It is akin to the 50s, when white people, adoring the black music, the rock 'n roll, the jazz, would say "I love your music, but can you not drink from my water fountain? Thanks. Now let's do the twist!"

Those were a couple observations I made. Okay sorry to get all political. I try not to get too political in my blog b/c I feel like I know little to nothing about politics. All right, back to banal musings about boys, about which I know even less.

Back in the game (sort of)

I went to a few professional events last week and made new friendly acquaintances. After one event, a bunch of us went out to shoot pool. Interestingly, it was four married guys and four single girls. That show I habitually quote from, "Sex & the City," once said that married men are the city's untapped resource of eligible bachelors. Befriend the married men, meet their single friends. I relayed this idea to the other girls and we began asking the guys if they had any cool single friends. My pool partner said he'd think about it, which I interpreted as, "Yeah yeah okay, now stop nagging me, woman."

Much to my surprise, my pool partner called me on Friday asking me if I wanted to go on a blind date with a "really cool" guy. At first I was hesitant. First, I have never been on a blind date. Second, I just met my pool parnter a few days ago. Now he was setting me up with a guy? But I'm open-minded. And if I'm willing to try dating guys from online or bars, I might as well try a blind date.

Blind Date Guy called me last night and we ended up talking for an hour. It was a pleasant conversation, nothing out of this world. We're meeting on Saturday for lunch. I may have been too presumptive, but to relieve any pressure, I blabbed something like "Never having been on a blind date, I know that the worst thing that could happen is we meet up and just don't click on that level. But it never hurts to meet new people." He agreed.

Interesting thing is, Blind Date Guy (BDG) is not only Asian, but of the same ethnicity. I haven't dated, let alone gone on a date with, a guy of my ethnicity since like 1998. I guess lately I've been dating white guys (with the exception of Online Guys # 3 (half white, half Colombian) & 4 (Chinese)). BDG came to the U.S. when he was in elementary school, and from speaking with him on the phone, I could discern a very slight shading of his ethnic accent. He is fluent in his native tongue while I am so not. So perhaps it is no surprise that I felt so...white speaking to him. Nonetheless, BDG described himself as a "twinkie," while I am a "banana." (Apparently, there is a difference between a twinkie and a banana, but that's another blog entry.)

Whenever a relationship fails, I always wonder, "What am I doing wrong?" I always try to find patterns in my dating style so I can learn from my mistakes. After ending things with the Guy, I realized that I hadn't dated a guy of my ethnicity in a while and began wondering what it would be like dating someone with the same cultural background, same Asian American experiences, etc.

Then my married pool friend comes through.

So strange how life works. We'll see what happens I suppose.