They say things happen when you least expect it. Falling in love. Winning the lottery. Finding a ten dollar bill in your coat pocket.
For me, it was having a really really really good date. This was last night.
No, it wasn't Consultant. And it definitely wasn't Non Emailer. It was another guy I happened to meet at the friend of a friend's friend's get together. Clearly, I had no big expectations regarding this guy, so little in fact that I neglected to even mention him in my blog. At the get together, he asked for number and later on called me to ask me to dinner. I needed something to take the edge off of my self-induced obsession over Non Emailer, so I said sure. And I ended up having one of the best dates in a really long time.
A few key traits:
1) He had initiative.
He called me only a couple days after I gave him my number. He asked me to dinner. None of this "Can I get your email and I may or may not email you" bull ish.
2) He was a gentleman.
He opened the door for me when we went to the restaurant. When we walked to his car, he would walk ahead so he could open my door for me, wait until I got in, and close the door for me. He always asked for my opinion before ordering an appetizer or dessert. I know this seems like common sense, but sadly, it isn't.
3) He was a good conversationalist.
He did not recite his resume to me or dominate the conversation about how this one time he and his buddies toilet-papered this dude's house. It was an engaging conversation. He asked me questions about myself and actually listened and followed up with more questions. And we talked about silly things (e.g., how our alcoholic beverage of choice depends on whether or not we want to remember things the next day) and more interesting things (e.g., traveling in Latin America). There were very little, if any, awkward pauses.
4) He was, and made me feel, comfortable.
I really felt like I could be myself. I didn't need to get buzzed to feel comfortable. I didn't worry over whether he was a playa. I didn't get any sketchy vibe from him. Most importantly, I didn't feel like I had to be "on." I could just be, and he could just be, and it felt great.
5) He made me laugh.
'Nuff said.
During the date, he had asked me if I wanted to go to this thing with him on Saturday, but I already had plans with some girls. Otherwise, I would have been totally down with it. The thing is, if this had been any other guy, the notion of seeing a guy twice in one week after just meeting him would suffocate me or creep me out. But with this guy, I was thinking, sure, why not? It'd be fun. And I know it would be.
So yes, needless to say, I was (and still am) incredibly shocked at how well the date went. It ended pleasantly. We gave our little "I had a great time"-spiels, and I (perhaps out of nervousness) just nodded, said goodbye, and just hopped out of the car. Is it bad if there's no hug or kiss? It's only the first date!
So we'll see what happens. It's only been 1 whole day since I've seen him, and I'm wondering if/when he's going to call me. I mean, chemistry can't be one-sided, can it? I don't think he'd suggest meeting up again unless he was mildly interested in me.
It's quite interesting that having a good time with a normal, nice guy is so rare and most of all, unexpected.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Adding insult to injury to insult to injury
I'd like to delve into all the details of Saturday night's party, but I won't. Suffice it to say that, in direct violation of the Naysayer's order that I not pay any attention to Non Emailer, I did. A lot of attention. But only in response.
I had every intention of staying true to the course. Play it cool yet friendly. But every so often during the evening, I'd end up chatting away with Non Emailer, just me and Non Emailer. At one point, as we sat alone in someone's room, he asked me if I was interested in Consultant. It turned out that Non Emailer and Consultant knew each other and were friendly acquaintances. I of course evaded the question by asking him why he was so curious. He said he "just wanted to know." I asked him if Consultant put him up to this. And he said no, he was just curious. I commented that Consultant "seemed like a nice guy." Yet Non Emailer insisted on a yes or no response. After a while, emboldened by Jose Cuervo and feeling particularly flirty, I jokingly asked him if he was jealous. This time he evaded the question.
That evening we covered a sleugh of topics. We talked a lot that night alone, and as the night progressed, we did get a bit affectionate--he put his arm around my waist, he rested his head on my shoulder, he threw his legs over mine. In case anyone is wondering, nothing substantive happened in the end, i.e., we didn't make out or hook up. (Admittedly, this may have been because I had to get a ride home with my gal pal.)
The next day, I speed-dialed the Naysayer to report the details of that night's events. At which point, I could literally discern the sound of him smacking his forehead.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO FLIRT WITH HIM!" he said.
I was confused. I thought the Naysayer would be happy for me. Delight in my newfound attention from Non Emailer. "I know, but he was being flirty back, see?" I said hopefully. "He put his arm around my waist--"
"He doesn't like you!"
"But why was he flirty with me?"
"Because he just wants to get LAID."
"What-what?"
"Yellow Gal, you need to move on. The guy has more than one occasion expressed a complete lack of interest in you. Come on!" To the Naysayer's credit, this is true. I haven't reported all incidents of humiliation on my blog, which I know is hard to believe. But there have been others.
Apparently, according to The Game, one of the tactics a guy can use to bed a chick is to pay absolutely no attention to her for the first twenty minutes of meeting her, and meanwhile pay attention to her friends, the homeless lady on the sidewalk, the two-headed monster at the bar, everyone except the target fuck. During those twenty minutes, the target will wonder, "Why doesn't he like me? What's wrong with me? Am I ugly? Guys usually like me. Wow he's so elusive..." At which point, the guy suddenly begins to pay attention to her. This new attention is then well-received by the chick, which she misinterprets as being well-earned attention from an elusive guy, and the guy gets laid.
I had read The Game when the Naysayer brought it along with him when he visited me. I only understood it in the short term context, not the long term context. But it kind of made sense. A guy shows no interest in a girl for a while. It's patently painfully obvious the girl likes him (again, humiliating incidents omitted from my blog). Later on, the guy wants to get some. Here's an easy target. It's so simple.
As the Naysayer pounded this into my head, I began to feel deflated. And so stupid. Yes, a part of me clings to the hope that he likes me, that I did "win" him over with my witty personality and hip-hugging jeans. But I have to admit, if he did like me, he would have called me, emailed me, asked me out--something. Because, well, that's what guys do when they like girls. Especially when the girl gives the guy a blaring, blinding green light.
But he hasn't. So like the Naysayer said. It's time to move on. And I'm on it. Really, I am.
I had every intention of staying true to the course. Play it cool yet friendly. But every so often during the evening, I'd end up chatting away with Non Emailer, just me and Non Emailer. At one point, as we sat alone in someone's room, he asked me if I was interested in Consultant. It turned out that Non Emailer and Consultant knew each other and were friendly acquaintances. I of course evaded the question by asking him why he was so curious. He said he "just wanted to know." I asked him if Consultant put him up to this. And he said no, he was just curious. I commented that Consultant "seemed like a nice guy." Yet Non Emailer insisted on a yes or no response. After a while, emboldened by Jose Cuervo and feeling particularly flirty, I jokingly asked him if he was jealous. This time he evaded the question.
That evening we covered a sleugh of topics. We talked a lot that night alone, and as the night progressed, we did get a bit affectionate--he put his arm around my waist, he rested his head on my shoulder, he threw his legs over mine. In case anyone is wondering, nothing substantive happened in the end, i.e., we didn't make out or hook up. (Admittedly, this may have been because I had to get a ride home with my gal pal.)
The next day, I speed-dialed the Naysayer to report the details of that night's events. At which point, I could literally discern the sound of him smacking his forehead.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO FLIRT WITH HIM!" he said.
I was confused. I thought the Naysayer would be happy for me. Delight in my newfound attention from Non Emailer. "I know, but he was being flirty back, see?" I said hopefully. "He put his arm around my waist--"
"He doesn't like you!"
"But why was he flirty with me?"
"Because he just wants to get LAID."
"What-what?"
"Yellow Gal, you need to move on. The guy has more than one occasion expressed a complete lack of interest in you. Come on!" To the Naysayer's credit, this is true. I haven't reported all incidents of humiliation on my blog, which I know is hard to believe. But there have been others.
Apparently, according to The Game, one of the tactics a guy can use to bed a chick is to pay absolutely no attention to her for the first twenty minutes of meeting her, and meanwhile pay attention to her friends, the homeless lady on the sidewalk, the two-headed monster at the bar, everyone except the target fuck. During those twenty minutes, the target will wonder, "Why doesn't he like me? What's wrong with me? Am I ugly? Guys usually like me. Wow he's so elusive..." At which point, the guy suddenly begins to pay attention to her. This new attention is then well-received by the chick, which she misinterprets as being well-earned attention from an elusive guy, and the guy gets laid.
I had read The Game when the Naysayer brought it along with him when he visited me. I only understood it in the short term context, not the long term context. But it kind of made sense. A guy shows no interest in a girl for a while. It's patently painfully obvious the girl likes him (again, humiliating incidents omitted from my blog). Later on, the guy wants to get some. Here's an easy target. It's so simple.
As the Naysayer pounded this into my head, I began to feel deflated. And so stupid. Yes, a part of me clings to the hope that he likes me, that I did "win" him over with my witty personality and hip-hugging jeans. But I have to admit, if he did like me, he would have called me, emailed me, asked me out--something. Because, well, that's what guys do when they like girls. Especially when the girl gives the guy a blaring, blinding green light.
But he hasn't. So like the Naysayer said. It's time to move on. And I'm on it. Really, I am.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Parties are fun
So it appears that Non Emailer and I run in similar circles of friends. Friday night, a friend of a friend's friend had a get together at a bar. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw him standing there, a brown bottle of beer in his hand, donned in a white button-up shirt and grey slacks. He seemed to be laughing at a joke that was very very funny. I closed my eyes and thanked god that I decided to blow-dry my hair that morning and wear a push-up bra.
As I made my way around the party, I chatted away with everyone, gals, guys, the host, the waiters. Eventually, I deigned to chat with Non Emailer. He was his usual friendly self. At one point, during our platonic prattle, a guy I had chatted with earlier--a cute consultant who also worked downtown--approached me.
"Hey there," he said, smiling at me.
"Hi," I said, smiling back, turning slightly from Non Emailer. I could see Non Emailer look to me and then to him. Consultant didn't notice Non Emailer.
"Look," Consultant said, "there's something I want to ask you."
"Okay," I said.
"I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner some time," he said.
I kind of stood there for a second, stunned, because I had never had a guy just ask me out like that so unabashedly, so openly.
"Um," I stammered, "Sure!"
"Cool, can I get your number?"
"Sure," I said. Consultant flipped open his phone for me and I entered my digits as a new cell phone entry. Out of the corner of my eye, I could discern Non Emailer drinking his beer.
"Cool," he said, "I'll call you."
"Great," I said, smiling, and turned back to Non Emailer.
Now the questions on everyone's mind are: Did Non Emailer fly into a fit of jealousy? Was he utterly offended that Consultant disrespected him like that? Did he confess his undying like for me, admit that he had that epidemic fear of intimacy and that he was scared, especially of me, because I was so different from all the other girls, and that was the true reason he never emailed me?
Or, did he blink blankly and drink his beer the same way he would observing a fly buzz around a piece of bread?
The answer, unfortunately, is obvious.
Now despite the fact that Non Emailer has absolutely no interest in me, I still couldn't help but feel a teeny bit satisfied that a guy hit on me in front of him. And Consultant was cool in his own right. He was certainly a notch above the recent batch of guys who have shown any interest me, which include various homeless people, construction workers, and the seventy-year-old janitor who works on my floor.
Anyhow, it ended up being a late night. Towards the end of the night, Non Emailer mentioned to me and my gal pal a party his friend was throwing. He invited us along, and anyone else who wanted to come. Ironically, the next day, for the first time ever, he emailed me at my personal email address--along with my friend--the party details. Well, better late than never.
So we're going. I suspect that Non Emailer will be surrounded by his entourage of "boyz" and lipsticked girls, while I stand on the periphery, trying to play it cool and pretend I'm interested in other guys.
It'll be fun. I'm sure.
As I made my way around the party, I chatted away with everyone, gals, guys, the host, the waiters. Eventually, I deigned to chat with Non Emailer. He was his usual friendly self. At one point, during our platonic prattle, a guy I had chatted with earlier--a cute consultant who also worked downtown--approached me.
"Hey there," he said, smiling at me.
"Hi," I said, smiling back, turning slightly from Non Emailer. I could see Non Emailer look to me and then to him. Consultant didn't notice Non Emailer.
"Look," Consultant said, "there's something I want to ask you."
"Okay," I said.
"I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner some time," he said.
I kind of stood there for a second, stunned, because I had never had a guy just ask me out like that so unabashedly, so openly.
"Um," I stammered, "Sure!"
"Cool, can I get your number?"
"Sure," I said. Consultant flipped open his phone for me and I entered my digits as a new cell phone entry. Out of the corner of my eye, I could discern Non Emailer drinking his beer.
"Cool," he said, "I'll call you."
"Great," I said, smiling, and turned back to Non Emailer.
Now the questions on everyone's mind are: Did Non Emailer fly into a fit of jealousy? Was he utterly offended that Consultant disrespected him like that? Did he confess his undying like for me, admit that he had that epidemic fear of intimacy and that he was scared, especially of me, because I was so different from all the other girls, and that was the true reason he never emailed me?
Or, did he blink blankly and drink his beer the same way he would observing a fly buzz around a piece of bread?
The answer, unfortunately, is obvious.
Now despite the fact that Non Emailer has absolutely no interest in me, I still couldn't help but feel a teeny bit satisfied that a guy hit on me in front of him. And Consultant was cool in his own right. He was certainly a notch above the recent batch of guys who have shown any interest me, which include various homeless people, construction workers, and the seventy-year-old janitor who works on my floor.
Anyhow, it ended up being a late night. Towards the end of the night, Non Emailer mentioned to me and my gal pal a party his friend was throwing. He invited us along, and anyone else who wanted to come. Ironically, the next day, for the first time ever, he emailed me at my personal email address--along with my friend--the party details. Well, better late than never.
So we're going. I suspect that Non Emailer will be surrounded by his entourage of "boyz" and lipsticked girls, while I stand on the periphery, trying to play it cool and pretend I'm interested in other guys.
It'll be fun. I'm sure.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Strange strangers
One of the great things about living in a big city is the running commentary you receive from complete strangers. They vary greatly in substance, yet little in eloquence.
For example, this morning I left my apartment to go to Starbucks, when I beheld an old homeless lady ahead of me mumbling nonsensically. As I walked right by her, I heard her say something scathingly to me that ended with the words ringing in my ear, "you damn bitch." I continued to walk, and came to a traffic light that just turned yellow, which I always interpret to mean "run before the light turns red." As I ran across the street, an irate cab driver leaned on his horn at me for about ten straight seconds (his light was also yellow). I held my hand up as I ran in front of his car and he leaned out of his window to inform me that I was a "fucking bitch."
All of this occurred in the span of ten minutes.
Of course, I consider these comments with the other commentary from complete strangers, the kind that any female with two legs and a pulse will receive walking down the street in a large city, ranging from "How you doing, sexy?" to "Damn girl I wanna eat you up!"
What is it about the city that disinhibits people to be so candid? Is it the close quarters that lead to an openness that allows bums and cab drivers and construction workers to comment on whether you're a bitch or damn fine? Perhaps the excess carbon monoxide from all the traffic has an effect on people's social boundaries. It's a very interesting phenomenon, one that I suspect doesn't exist in suburbs or small towns.
At any rate, while I grow more and more desnsensitized to the randomness of strangers, I will be rest assured that I'm somewhere between a fucking bitch and a sexy fine thing.
For example, this morning I left my apartment to go to Starbucks, when I beheld an old homeless lady ahead of me mumbling nonsensically. As I walked right by her, I heard her say something scathingly to me that ended with the words ringing in my ear, "you damn bitch." I continued to walk, and came to a traffic light that just turned yellow, which I always interpret to mean "run before the light turns red." As I ran across the street, an irate cab driver leaned on his horn at me for about ten straight seconds (his light was also yellow). I held my hand up as I ran in front of his car and he leaned out of his window to inform me that I was a "fucking bitch."
All of this occurred in the span of ten minutes.
Of course, I consider these comments with the other commentary from complete strangers, the kind that any female with two legs and a pulse will receive walking down the street in a large city, ranging from "How you doing, sexy?" to "Damn girl I wanna eat you up!"
What is it about the city that disinhibits people to be so candid? Is it the close quarters that lead to an openness that allows bums and cab drivers and construction workers to comment on whether you're a bitch or damn fine? Perhaps the excess carbon monoxide from all the traffic has an effect on people's social boundaries. It's a very interesting phenomenon, one that I suspect doesn't exist in suburbs or small towns.
At any rate, while I grow more and more desnsensitized to the randomness of strangers, I will be rest assured that I'm somewhere between a fucking bitch and a sexy fine thing.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Guys 101 - revisited
A guy recently gave me and my gal pal a primer in Guys 101. She and I are both in our late twenties and certainly not dating novices. So it shocked him when he discovered that we weren't privy to one of the most fundamental tenets of human nature:
A guy is never nice to a girl for no reason.
which is a corollary to:
A guy is only nice to a girl because he has some interest.
[This is similar to my previous entry on the theory that guys and girls can't "just be friends."]
This rule was of course met with reactions like "Oh COME ON!" and "Yeah right!" But he stood by it. And he conceded that there are exceptions to every rule including his, but more often than not, he was right. So we started throwing examples at him.
"A guy asks a girl for her email address?" [Yeah that was me asking about Non Emailer. I'm over it, really I am.]
"Interested."
"A guy asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"
"Interested."
"A guy who's already spoken for asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"
"Interested."
"Even if he's taken and they both know that he's taken??"
"Yes. Think about it, would he tell his woman that he's having drinks after work with a single girl?"
"Maybe...?"
"No."
___________
Side note: I think a lot of girls think that a man's status as "taken" acts as sort of a buffer. In other words, if a taken guy asks a girl to drinks or dinner, it seems innocuous because the guy is presumably devoid of interest in the girl because - "duh" - he's taken.
Another side note: A lot of girls are sometimes wrong.
___________
My friend and I mused over his seemingly glib assessment of all men-kind. I furthered, "But there've been times when I thought a guy liked me, and I was totally wrong."
He responded, "Sure, once in a while, a guy will be nice to you simply because he's just nice. But playing the probabilities, guys are never 'just nice.' "
Afterwards, my friend & I discussed this. I suppose a lot of girls like to shy away from assuming that any/every guy nice them is looking for more. First, it just seems plain arrogant to assume a guy likes a gal on the sole basis of him being nice to her. Second, as I mentioned above, some gals have thought guys liked them--and were wrong. Third, girls are nice to guys just to be nice, nothing less nothing more. So perhaps they assume the same in reverse.
At any rate, the Professor of Guys 101 just couldn't believe that my friend and I were so naive. A part of me resists his black-and-white rules. While another part of me kind of wishes that rules could be that black and white, especially those pertaining to the mysteries of the male mind.
A guy is never nice to a girl for no reason.
which is a corollary to:
A guy is only nice to a girl because he has some interest.
[This is similar to my previous entry on the theory that guys and girls can't "just be friends."]
This rule was of course met with reactions like "Oh COME ON!" and "Yeah right!" But he stood by it. And he conceded that there are exceptions to every rule including his, but more often than not, he was right. So we started throwing examples at him.
"A guy asks a girl for her email address?" [Yeah that was me asking about Non Emailer. I'm over it, really I am.]
"Interested."
"A guy asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"
"Interested."
"A guy who's already spoken for asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"
"Interested."
"Even if he's taken and they both know that he's taken??"
"Yes. Think about it, would he tell his woman that he's having drinks after work with a single girl?"
"Maybe...?"
"No."
___________
Side note: I think a lot of girls think that a man's status as "taken" acts as sort of a buffer. In other words, if a taken guy asks a girl to drinks or dinner, it seems innocuous because the guy is presumably devoid of interest in the girl because - "duh" - he's taken.
Another side note: A lot of girls are sometimes wrong.
___________
My friend and I mused over his seemingly glib assessment of all men-kind. I furthered, "But there've been times when I thought a guy liked me, and I was totally wrong."
He responded, "Sure, once in a while, a guy will be nice to you simply because he's just nice. But playing the probabilities, guys are never 'just nice.' "
Afterwards, my friend & I discussed this. I suppose a lot of girls like to shy away from assuming that any/every guy nice them is looking for more. First, it just seems plain arrogant to assume a guy likes a gal on the sole basis of him being nice to her. Second, as I mentioned above, some gals have thought guys liked them--and were wrong. Third, girls are nice to guys just to be nice, nothing less nothing more. So perhaps they assume the same in reverse.
At any rate, the Professor of Guys 101 just couldn't believe that my friend and I were so naive. A part of me resists his black-and-white rules. While another part of me kind of wishes that rules could be that black and white, especially those pertaining to the mysteries of the male mind.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Unlikeable
I recently met a guy my friend is dating. I do not like him. Now, I like to think I generally like most people. They usually have to do something to make me dislike them. In my friend's guy's case, he said, among other things, "I don't like Jews."
Now, everyone harbors some racism. And perhaps I should give the guy credit because he openly acknowledges his own racism while others (myself included) like to pretend we never see color, just people. The thing is, if I am racist, if I harbor negative stereotypes about groups of people, I despise that about myself. With him, he seemed to feel justified in his dislike of Jews.
It started when I said I had a thing for Jon Stewart.
"But he's a Jew," he grimaced.
I looked at him. "So what if he's Jewish?"
He repeated, "He's a Jew."
"What do you have against Jews?"
"Oh I'm just kidding around. I joke about disliking Jews sometimes."
I was like, Oh-kay... But he later again said how he didn't like "the Jews" and how "they own all the banks."
"Well," I responded, "some of them own banks because, um, they are smart and worked hard to get to where they are."
Instead of addressing my response, he simply continued his original line of conversation. At any rate, it was clear I wasn't going to persuade him to be less anti-semitic.
So how to answer the question my friend posed to me later: "So what do you think of him?"
I know that a girl will pick the guy over her friend when given a choice. I don't want to jeopardize the friendship by calling the guy a Nazi/Klansman/racist bastard. So I took the easy way out and said "Oh, he sounds...interesting."
Still, I feel like she should acknowledge the fact that his blatant anti-semitism is a problem, that it should be at least a factor in her assessment of their long-term potential. Perhaps because she has no Jewish friends or connection with Jews, she feels that his anti-semitism is irrelevant. It doesn't affect how well he treats her.
But it really bothers me. And it bothers me that it doesn't bother her. So I'm considering bringing it up with her. Nicely. Like, "Does it bother you at all that he doesn't like Jews?" I know what the answer is, and I run the risk of antagonizing her, but maybe it'll get her thinking.
On the plus side, the guy did mention that he thought Hitler was a bad guy for murdering millions of people. At least he drew the line somewhere.
Now, everyone harbors some racism. And perhaps I should give the guy credit because he openly acknowledges his own racism while others (myself included) like to pretend we never see color, just people. The thing is, if I am racist, if I harbor negative stereotypes about groups of people, I despise that about myself. With him, he seemed to feel justified in his dislike of Jews.
It started when I said I had a thing for Jon Stewart.
"But he's a Jew," he grimaced.
I looked at him. "So what if he's Jewish?"
He repeated, "He's a Jew."
"What do you have against Jews?"
"Oh I'm just kidding around. I joke about disliking Jews sometimes."
I was like, Oh-kay... But he later again said how he didn't like "the Jews" and how "they own all the banks."
"Well," I responded, "some of them own banks because, um, they are smart and worked hard to get to where they are."
Instead of addressing my response, he simply continued his original line of conversation. At any rate, it was clear I wasn't going to persuade him to be less anti-semitic.
So how to answer the question my friend posed to me later: "So what do you think of him?"
I know that a girl will pick the guy over her friend when given a choice. I don't want to jeopardize the friendship by calling the guy a Nazi/Klansman/racist bastard. So I took the easy way out and said "Oh, he sounds...interesting."
Still, I feel like she should acknowledge the fact that his blatant anti-semitism is a problem, that it should be at least a factor in her assessment of their long-term potential. Perhaps because she has no Jewish friends or connection with Jews, she feels that his anti-semitism is irrelevant. It doesn't affect how well he treats her.
But it really bothers me. And it bothers me that it doesn't bother her. So I'm considering bringing it up with her. Nicely. Like, "Does it bother you at all that he doesn't like Jews?" I know what the answer is, and I run the risk of antagonizing her, but maybe it'll get her thinking.
On the plus side, the guy did mention that he thought Hitler was a bad guy for murdering millions of people. At least he drew the line somewhere.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Wake up
I had a dream that Non Emailer emailed me. Several times. The emails were in 24 point font, bright colors, comic sans. He was asking me questions about myself.
Some people dream about transparent birds flying out of rainbow lakes. I dream about Non Emailer emailing me.
Yep, dreams can be pretty fantastical.
Some people dream about transparent birds flying out of rainbow lakes. I dream about Non Emailer emailing me.
Yep, dreams can be pretty fantastical.
Coffee between friends
"Guess what Tom did for me today?" Aly gushed.
"I don't know, what?" Beth said as she sipped her coffee.
"He sent roses to my office every hour, each hour with a different colored set of roses!" she squealed. "And for no reason except to say that he loves me!"
"Wow, that's great," Beth replied, trying to smile. "That's almost as sweet as a guy showing up an hour late on a first date and calling you the wrong name."
"Oh forget about Mark! Sorry you had such a crappy date."
"It's okay."
"Don't worry," Aly replied. "You'll find someone," she added with a knowing nod.
For a moment, Beth remained silent. "Umm," she said slowly, "Yeah, I know I'll find someone, but thanks."
"I didn't mean it like that," Aly replied. "I mean, you're smart, funny and cute. You're a catch! You deserve so much better than that Mark. One day you'll find someone as great as my Tom!"
Great as my Tom? Beth glared at Aly. "I really appreciate your condescending pep talk, really I do," Beth replied, "but spare me your pity. You're actually making me feel worse."
Aly sighed and looked at Beth in the eye.
Beth looked back at Aly. "What?"
Aly shook her head and said, "I can't win with you, can I?"
"You always win," Beth replied, her voice grating. "That's your shtick."
"Look, just because I'm in a relationship and you're not doesn't mean you can be bitchy to me," Aly said, blinking thoughtfully.
"Wow, you're funny."
"Face it," Aly sighed. "You're jealous."
"Like I said, you're funny," Beth replied deadpan. "Truly."
"I'm not going to feel bad because I have a boyfriend and you don't. And I don't need to apologize for being happy."
"Excuse me," Beth said, "I don't believe I asked for an apology for you being happy."
"You didn't need to. Your bitterness says enough," Aly said, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes.
Beth couldn't help but laugh. "You're so sad."
"Excuse me?"
"You sit there, so smug. All because of Tom." Beth stood up and threw a ten dollar bill on the table. "Your self-worth and superiority all hinge on Tom."
Aly continued to stare at Beth.
Beth continued, "I'd hate to see what happens if that ended. What will you have then? Certainly no friends, given the way you're acting."
Aly rolled her eyes.
"While I appreciate the gesture, you can't pity me," Beth declared. She swung her purse over her shoulder and smiled. "I hope you and Tom have a happy life together. The alternative would be--" Beth searched for the right word "--pitiable."
"I don't know, what?" Beth said as she sipped her coffee.
"He sent roses to my office every hour, each hour with a different colored set of roses!" she squealed. "And for no reason except to say that he loves me!"
"Wow, that's great," Beth replied, trying to smile. "That's almost as sweet as a guy showing up an hour late on a first date and calling you the wrong name."
"Oh forget about Mark! Sorry you had such a crappy date."
"It's okay."
"Don't worry," Aly replied. "You'll find someone," she added with a knowing nod.
For a moment, Beth remained silent. "Umm," she said slowly, "Yeah, I know I'll find someone, but thanks."
"I didn't mean it like that," Aly replied. "I mean, you're smart, funny and cute. You're a catch! You deserve so much better than that Mark. One day you'll find someone as great as my Tom!"
Great as my Tom? Beth glared at Aly. "I really appreciate your condescending pep talk, really I do," Beth replied, "but spare me your pity. You're actually making me feel worse."
Aly sighed and looked at Beth in the eye.
Beth looked back at Aly. "What?"
Aly shook her head and said, "I can't win with you, can I?"
"You always win," Beth replied, her voice grating. "That's your shtick."
"Look, just because I'm in a relationship and you're not doesn't mean you can be bitchy to me," Aly said, blinking thoughtfully.
"Wow, you're funny."
"Face it," Aly sighed. "You're jealous."
"Like I said, you're funny," Beth replied deadpan. "Truly."
"I'm not going to feel bad because I have a boyfriend and you don't. And I don't need to apologize for being happy."
"Excuse me," Beth said, "I don't believe I asked for an apology for you being happy."
"You didn't need to. Your bitterness says enough," Aly said, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes.
Beth couldn't help but laugh. "You're so sad."
"Excuse me?"
"You sit there, so smug. All because of Tom." Beth stood up and threw a ten dollar bill on the table. "Your self-worth and superiority all hinge on Tom."
Aly continued to stare at Beth.
Beth continued, "I'd hate to see what happens if that ended. What will you have then? Certainly no friends, given the way you're acting."
Aly rolled her eyes.
"While I appreciate the gesture, you can't pity me," Beth declared. She swung her purse over her shoulder and smiled. "I hope you and Tom have a happy life together. The alternative would be--" Beth searched for the right word "--pitiable."
Sunday, March 11, 2007
So you think you can dance
To ensure that I have hobbies other than analyzing how I turn guys off, I signed up for a cardio class at a local dance studio. It's a "cardio striptease" class, where you learn "sexy moves" in the form of a cardio workout. No, you don't actually strip and yes, you actually do engage in a cardio workout, as I learned in the first class this past Saturday.
It was around noon and I walked into the studio and tentatively placed my purse on the window sill. I surveyed the other girls in the class. They looked to be yuppies or yuppies-to-be, in the twenty to thirty-something age range. The instructor, a professionally trained dancer and a former cheerleader for the city's NBA team, walked in with a cheery air of confidence, tossed her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, and beamed at the class. Her fitted turquoise tank top and black tights did little to hide her well-earned athletic physique. I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and couldn't help but feel frumpy in my baggy sweatpants and billowy t-shirt.
Before we learned our routine, we did a warm-up. One of our less modest moves was literally lying on our backs and thrusting our pelvises up and down. In other words, humping the air. As I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, humping the air, I mused over the vision this would be for some random guy if he were to walk in. A bunch of twenty/thirty-something year old girls wearing tank tops on their backs, fornicating with the air.
But not every exercise was a pornstar-in-training move. There were sit-ups, leg lifts, push-ups. The most arduous part was extending our arms sideways and moving them in little circles. Sounds so easy, but it was sucking my will to live. Some girls had to stop after a while because it was so hard.
After our warm-up, we learned our dance routine. At first, I was totally lost, trying to keep up with all the seemingly complicated dance moves. But after a while, I sort of got it and, with the dance music playing, got into it. The swishing of our hips and calculated head tilts became fun.
Okay so it may be a while before we become the newest version of the Pussycat Dolls. This morning I woke up in pain. My entire body -- my legs, back, stomach, arms -- ached. I can barely walk without looking arthritic. Still though, I must admit it's a satisfying soreness, the kind that tells you that you had a good workout. I know that eventually the soreness will go away, and soon all of us will be athletic dancing sex goddesses. That, or at least in better shape.
It was around noon and I walked into the studio and tentatively placed my purse on the window sill. I surveyed the other girls in the class. They looked to be yuppies or yuppies-to-be, in the twenty to thirty-something age range. The instructor, a professionally trained dancer and a former cheerleader for the city's NBA team, walked in with a cheery air of confidence, tossed her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, and beamed at the class. Her fitted turquoise tank top and black tights did little to hide her well-earned athletic physique. I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and couldn't help but feel frumpy in my baggy sweatpants and billowy t-shirt.
Before we learned our routine, we did a warm-up. One of our less modest moves was literally lying on our backs and thrusting our pelvises up and down. In other words, humping the air. As I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, humping the air, I mused over the vision this would be for some random guy if he were to walk in. A bunch of twenty/thirty-something year old girls wearing tank tops on their backs, fornicating with the air.
But not every exercise was a pornstar-in-training move. There were sit-ups, leg lifts, push-ups. The most arduous part was extending our arms sideways and moving them in little circles. Sounds so easy, but it was sucking my will to live. Some girls had to stop after a while because it was so hard.
After our warm-up, we learned our dance routine. At first, I was totally lost, trying to keep up with all the seemingly complicated dance moves. But after a while, I sort of got it and, with the dance music playing, got into it. The swishing of our hips and calculated head tilts became fun.
Okay so it may be a while before we become the newest version of the Pussycat Dolls. This morning I woke up in pain. My entire body -- my legs, back, stomach, arms -- ached. I can barely walk without looking arthritic. Still though, I must admit it's a satisfying soreness, the kind that tells you that you had a good workout. I know that eventually the soreness will go away, and soon all of us will be athletic dancing sex goddesses. That, or at least in better shape.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Mirror mirror on the wall...uh, nevermind
Whenever a guy does not like a girl back, a girl tends to blame at least one of two things: (1) her looks, and/or (2) her personality. Because men are such visual creatures and our culture glorifies appearance over substance, I think most girls tend to blame the former: their looks.
I was chatting with the Naysayer the other night, contemplating over the Non Emailer debacle, and couldn't help but succumb to that 12 year old insecurity. I resisted at first, but I had to ask him: "It's not because he thinks I'm ugly, right?" and "I'm not ugly...am I?" -- to which he yelled at me, "NO."
Yes, I'm well aware I broke "The Rules" and hence that may be why Non Emailer is revolted by me. But come on, if Jessica Alba or Angelina Jolie broke the Rules by calling a guy instead of waiting for him to call her, I don't think the guy would be revolted by her un-ladylike forwardness. Let's face it, the Rules are different for the truly beautiful women, as opposed to the not-bad-looking, sometimes-looks-cute-in-certain-lighting girls.
So I told the Naysayer that a lot of girls (at least in my case) can't help but think, "Oh if I were only prettier, then he'd like me back." His response: "That's probably true." But he added: "With Non Emailer though, I don't think that's the case. It just wasn't there."
Yes, I know that personality accounts for a lot, but I think having the prettier face gets your foot in the door, so to speak. Having a prettier face softens a guy, weakens his defenses, and opens him up to the possibility of liking you. While those of us with a less-than-gorgeous mug face an uphill battle.
Not that I'm butt. (Or am I?!) I just wouldn't mind being that effortlessly gorgeous gal.
Then again, a downside to being effortlessly gorgeous is that a gal will attract too many guys, so many guys that it's a task to weed out the undesirables and to ascertain whether or not a guy likes her for her, or her breasts.
I suppose either way, it's tough.
Like I said before, it's so fun being a girl.
I was chatting with the Naysayer the other night, contemplating over the Non Emailer debacle, and couldn't help but succumb to that 12 year old insecurity. I resisted at first, but I had to ask him: "It's not because he thinks I'm ugly, right?" and "I'm not ugly...am I?" -- to which he yelled at me, "NO."
Yes, I'm well aware I broke "The Rules" and hence that may be why Non Emailer is revolted by me. But come on, if Jessica Alba or Angelina Jolie broke the Rules by calling a guy instead of waiting for him to call her, I don't think the guy would be revolted by her un-ladylike forwardness. Let's face it, the Rules are different for the truly beautiful women, as opposed to the not-bad-looking, sometimes-looks-cute-in-certain-lighting girls.
So I told the Naysayer that a lot of girls (at least in my case) can't help but think, "Oh if I were only prettier, then he'd like me back." His response: "That's probably true." But he added: "With Non Emailer though, I don't think that's the case. It just wasn't there."
Yes, I know that personality accounts for a lot, but I think having the prettier face gets your foot in the door, so to speak. Having a prettier face softens a guy, weakens his defenses, and opens him up to the possibility of liking you. While those of us with a less-than-gorgeous mug face an uphill battle.
Not that I'm butt. (Or am I?!) I just wouldn't mind being that effortlessly gorgeous gal.
Then again, a downside to being effortlessly gorgeous is that a gal will attract too many guys, so many guys that it's a task to weed out the undesirables and to ascertain whether or not a guy likes her for her, or her breasts.
I suppose either way, it's tough.
Like I said before, it's so fun being a girl.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Don't try this at home
Some would say spontaneity is a positive quality. A spontaneous gal will go on a last-minute weekend trip to a nearby lake or impulsively walk up to a group of people at a party and say "hi" without worrying over what to say and just wing it. I am occasionally spontaneous, and in most instances, a fun time ensues.
I've recently discovered however that there is a downside to having occasional bouts of spontaneity. Spontaneity necessarily involves lack of premeditation. And so sometimes, this "positive quality" will induce the holder of it to do something stupid, like, for example, throw all The Rules out the window and on a spur of the moment click on the "compose" button in her email program to write a stupid email to Non Email Guy under the pretense of some professional objective.
Yeah.
As soon as I sent it, I internally screamed. All those suggestions from some of my friends sprung to mind: "Men like the chase," and "Don't you want a guy who has the balls to pursue you?" blah blah blah. But then I thought of the other adages: "If a guy likes a girl, it doesn't really matter who does what," and even more compelling, "Fuck 'The Rules.' "
So what happened? Well he replied. I thought and hoped, "Oh, if I get the conversational ball rolling, he'll see I'm totally interested and suggest hanging out or something." And so we emailed back and forth several more times, where I segued the conversation from professional pretense to more friendlier topics. And then...the emails just ended. No dates lined up. No follow up questions. Just silence.
When I reported this to the Naysayer, he first yelled at me for not giving Non Emailer more signals (I apparently was not "suggestive" or flirty enough), and then wavered in his explanation as to why Non Emailer didn't ask me out: Either (1) he doesn't like me, or (2) he's a wuss. "So even if he does like you," the Naysayer reasoned, "do you want to date a guy who's such a wuss?"
Guess not. Though of course that ball was never in my court.
While I admit, this may not be the End of the Saga of the Non Emailer, I can't help but feel deflated. Ah well. I may be good at tempting fate. Just not men.
I've recently discovered however that there is a downside to having occasional bouts of spontaneity. Spontaneity necessarily involves lack of premeditation. And so sometimes, this "positive quality" will induce the holder of it to do something stupid, like, for example, throw all The Rules out the window and on a spur of the moment click on the "compose" button in her email program to write a stupid email to Non Email Guy under the pretense of some professional objective.
Yeah.
As soon as I sent it, I internally screamed. All those suggestions from some of my friends sprung to mind: "Men like the chase," and "Don't you want a guy who has the balls to pursue you?" blah blah blah. But then I thought of the other adages: "If a guy likes a girl, it doesn't really matter who does what," and even more compelling, "Fuck 'The Rules.' "
So what happened? Well he replied. I thought and hoped, "Oh, if I get the conversational ball rolling, he'll see I'm totally interested and suggest hanging out or something." And so we emailed back and forth several more times, where I segued the conversation from professional pretense to more friendlier topics. And then...the emails just ended. No dates lined up. No follow up questions. Just silence.
When I reported this to the Naysayer, he first yelled at me for not giving Non Emailer more signals (I apparently was not "suggestive" or flirty enough), and then wavered in his explanation as to why Non Emailer didn't ask me out: Either (1) he doesn't like me, or (2) he's a wuss. "So even if he does like you," the Naysayer reasoned, "do you want to date a guy who's such a wuss?"
Guess not. Though of course that ball was never in my court.
While I admit, this may not be the End of the Saga of the Non Emailer, I can't help but feel deflated. Ah well. I may be good at tempting fate. Just not men.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Well
After consulting 5 guys and 4 gals, and reading comments from Loofa & Anonymous, I have come to the conclusion that Non Email Dude more likely than not has some modicum of interest.
Armed with this newfound knowledge, I will now...continue to sit by the computer waiting for him to email me.
It's so fun being a girl.
Armed with this newfound knowledge, I will now...continue to sit by the computer waiting for him to email me.
It's so fun being a girl.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Waiting by the computer (a.k.a. musings of a stupid neurotic girl who may or may not like a guy who may or may not like her back)
I had met you a couple weeks ago at a business event. We’ve hung out (in a group of course) a couple times since. We chatted a bit; we seemed to connect pretty well. I thought you were cool and so I gave you my business card.
I’m not sure as to whether or not I like you. And so when you followed up the following Monday with a short friendly email to my work address to just me, not the group, but just me, I thought, well, maybe. You asked in your email for my personal email address. I responded accordingly and quipped about the weather. You responded and – unsolicited – volunteered your non-work email address. We shot a couple emails back and forth. And that was it. All of this occurred on Monday.
Today is Friday. Why the hell haven’t you emailed me yet?! Why would someone ask for a spoon if they weren’t going to use it? Similarly, why would you ask for my personal email address if you weren’t going to email me? Am I supposed to email you? Both guy and gal pals advise against my emailing you. “Let him come to you,” they tell me. “But he’s not!” I insist. “He will,” they say.
But you haven’t. Like I said, today is Friday.
So the question on my mind is, was your email a purely professional gesture? According to the Naysayer, guys don’t affirmatively “follow up” with girls asking for their personal email addresses unless there was some modicum of interest (hopefully non-professional, if not unprofessional).
But then again, maybe you’re one of those guys who go above and beyond to extend your network of business contacts. You like to garner the personal email addresses of all potential clients because it establishes camaraderie, rapport and all that other bull shit.
Yet, if it was purely professional, then why, after already having my business email, would you ask for my personal email?
It is this tiny thread of logic upon which I hinge my hope that you may like me back. Pathetic, I know.
So I am meeting up with my guy friend later. I keep imagining that he and I will bump into you while we’re downtown and that once you see me with this strange gentleman, you’ll be overcome with a fit of jealousy so unbearable that you will have no choice but to do what you haven’t done all week – email me.
So let’s cut all this nonsense out. Save some room on blogger.com. End the speculation.
Email me.
I’m not sure as to whether or not I like you. And so when you followed up the following Monday with a short friendly email to my work address to just me, not the group, but just me, I thought, well, maybe. You asked in your email for my personal email address. I responded accordingly and quipped about the weather. You responded and – unsolicited – volunteered your non-work email address. We shot a couple emails back and forth. And that was it. All of this occurred on Monday.
Today is Friday. Why the hell haven’t you emailed me yet?! Why would someone ask for a spoon if they weren’t going to use it? Similarly, why would you ask for my personal email address if you weren’t going to email me? Am I supposed to email you? Both guy and gal pals advise against my emailing you. “Let him come to you,” they tell me. “But he’s not!” I insist. “He will,” they say.
But you haven’t. Like I said, today is Friday.
So the question on my mind is, was your email a purely professional gesture? According to the Naysayer, guys don’t affirmatively “follow up” with girls asking for their personal email addresses unless there was some modicum of interest (hopefully non-professional, if not unprofessional).
But then again, maybe you’re one of those guys who go above and beyond to extend your network of business contacts. You like to garner the personal email addresses of all potential clients because it establishes camaraderie, rapport and all that other bull shit.
Yet, if it was purely professional, then why, after already having my business email, would you ask for my personal email?
It is this tiny thread of logic upon which I hinge my hope that you may like me back. Pathetic, I know.
So I am meeting up with my guy friend later. I keep imagining that he and I will bump into you while we’re downtown and that once you see me with this strange gentleman, you’ll be overcome with a fit of jealousy so unbearable that you will have no choice but to do what you haven’t done all week – email me.
So let’s cut all this nonsense out. Save some room on blogger.com. End the speculation.
Email me.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Thank you Girl in the Pink Shirt
You were there when I needed you. I walked up to the bar next to you to order a drink. A strange man walked up to me and said "Excuse me." I looked at him and said "Hi."
"Hi," he said. He looked at the jade bracelet on my right arm, pointed to it, and asked, "Did you have to dislocate your arm to get that bracelet on?" I watched him then twist his own arm behind his back to reenact a dislocated arm. I was genuinely confused, and replied, "No, I didn't. I just...put it on my wrist."
"Wow," he said. "It's because you have such tiny wrists!"
"I guess," I said. "Well you can just squeeze it on." Then I awkwardly demonstrated it.
"Wow," he said.
Sensing the utter painfulness of the conversation, you - the Girl in Pink Shirt - turned to me suddenly and asked me, "Hey have you ever tried this drink before?" A matching pink drink sat before you and my eyes lit up and I said, "No I haven't!" and excitedly asked, "What is it?"
"Oh it's a Hawaiian breeze," you replied, locking eyes with me and smiling.
"Oh really? Cool!" I replied.
"Want a taste?"
"Sure!!" I enthused not breaking any eye contact with you. "Wow, that's good!" I then ordered the drink from the bartender. Meanwhile, in the background, the Dislocated Arm Guy cowered sheepishly and walked away.
"Delicious," I said when I got my drink.
You leaned into me, murmured "You're welcome by the way," smiled, and walked away.
So dear Girl in the Pink Shirt, thank you for rescuing me. I appreciate it.
"Hi," he said. He looked at the jade bracelet on my right arm, pointed to it, and asked, "Did you have to dislocate your arm to get that bracelet on?" I watched him then twist his own arm behind his back to reenact a dislocated arm. I was genuinely confused, and replied, "No, I didn't. I just...put it on my wrist."
"Wow," he said. "It's because you have such tiny wrists!"
"I guess," I said. "Well you can just squeeze it on." Then I awkwardly demonstrated it.
"Wow," he said.
Sensing the utter painfulness of the conversation, you - the Girl in Pink Shirt - turned to me suddenly and asked me, "Hey have you ever tried this drink before?" A matching pink drink sat before you and my eyes lit up and I said, "No I haven't!" and excitedly asked, "What is it?"
"Oh it's a Hawaiian breeze," you replied, locking eyes with me and smiling.
"Oh really? Cool!" I replied.
"Want a taste?"
"Sure!!" I enthused not breaking any eye contact with you. "Wow, that's good!" I then ordered the drink from the bartender. Meanwhile, in the background, the Dislocated Arm Guy cowered sheepishly and walked away.
"Delicious," I said when I got my drink.
You leaned into me, murmured "You're welcome by the way," smiled, and walked away.
So dear Girl in the Pink Shirt, thank you for rescuing me. I appreciate it.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
The bad person
We all like to think we're good people. We all like to think we do the right thing. Yes, we make mistakes once in a while, but when it comes to the real thing, the big thing, we do the right thing. That's what separates the good people from the bad people. Bad people have no soul, no conscience. They wear trench coats, hide in corners with bombs and guns, and do bad things because they are selfish and hateful.
But what do you do when you look in the mirror and realize, you're one of them? You thought all along that you were one of the good guys, at least one of the nice ones, but you're not.
These realizations of course don't occur during the evil conduct. They happen afterwards. They happen when someone gets hurt. They happen when you get caught. They happen when someone dies.
When Theresa left the bar that evening at 1:45 am, she thought she was a good person. She was feeling pretty good, at least. She had downed a couple shots of tequila chased by a couple pints of beer. Then she had another shot for good measure. As she got up to leave, the bartender yelped to her, "I'm calling you a cab!" But she yelped back, "Already did!" and watched him hang up the phone as she walked out the door.
Theresa was feeling very drowsy, very loopy, and very drunk. She pulled the keys from her pocket and placed the key into her door. Wrong key. That was the trunk door key. She tried again. There, that opened it. She plopped inside and closed the door shut and took a deep breath.
"Don't drink and drive," a sign outside the bar said. Don't drink and drive. How many times did she hear that? The television messages with the home videos of children being pushed on swingsets that later reveal that this happy smiling child was killed by a drunk driver. The text on every beer or liquor ad that said "Drink responsibly -- Don't drink and drive." She was no fool. She could read. She watched the news. And most importantly, she was a good person.
She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine groaned beneath her. But aren't you drunk? she heard a small voice ask inside. Are you okay to drive?
Of course, of course she was. Theresa was smart. She was no fool.
Not far down the road, a blue sedan was driving at 55 miles per hour. A small boy and girl lay asleep in the back, the father was reclined in the passenger seat, and the mother was driving steadily, listening to the soft sound of Fleetwood Mac on the radio. Ten minutes later, the bumper of Theresa's car severed the mother and father's heads, and flattened the boy's body. The little girl, who happened to be crouching very low as she slept, survived with a broken arm and cracked ribs.
Theresa, unfortunately, survived. She woke up in the hospital with a concussion. The nurses and doctors and aides surrounded her bed and spoke with clipped words and monotones. Something was not right, she thought. This was later confirmed by a judge during her sentencing. Her father was, unfortunately, a hot-shot lawyer with ties to the local government. Theresa did not get jail time. Instead, she was placed on probation and ordered to perform several thousand hours of community service. The media hated it and loved it.
On no particular day, Theresa took a seat in the break room of the nursing home. She had just wheeled food to the elderly for several hours. "Just breathe," she said. It was what she had told herself so many times before, during the court proceedings, during the media hounding, during her parents' torrential lectures on what a horrible thing she did was, during her daily ritual of scrolling emails that had subject lines like "Burn in hell, Theresa," "Fuck you whore," and "Murderer."
She went to the restroom and looked in the mirror and saw herself, really saw herself, and realized she was not one of the good people. The sight of the mangled bodies was branded in her memory. She murdered a family. She ruined a girl's life. In a simple moment of arrogance, she chose to be bad. She knew it wasn't a "mistake," as she tried to argue, it wasn't an "accident." She knew what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. And she did it. And thanks to her dad, she had virtually no reckoning, no punishment. A father, a mother and a brother were rotting in their graves. And Theresa was above ground and wheeling food to geriatrics.
So many times she called upon that moment, when she sat in her car with the key in the ignition, reading that sign. How simple it would have been to just follow the sign. To let the bartender call a cab. To sleep it off in the car. To do something else, anything else, other than what she actually did. She visited this moment over and over again, wishing she could change it, hating herself for being one of the bad people. She cried herself to sleep every night and wishing she could die, and knowing that so many people agreed.
What made a bad person bad? Was it the choices they made? Their intent while choosing the wrong choice? The consequences? If a person did something bad and no one got hurt, was the person bad? Bad people didn't feel regret, did they? Nor guilt? Jeffrey Dahmer apologized to the families of his victims. Wasn't he still a bad person?
Theresa didn't know what made a bad person bad. All she knew was that she was one of them.
But what do you do when you look in the mirror and realize, you're one of them? You thought all along that you were one of the good guys, at least one of the nice ones, but you're not.
These realizations of course don't occur during the evil conduct. They happen afterwards. They happen when someone gets hurt. They happen when you get caught. They happen when someone dies.
When Theresa left the bar that evening at 1:45 am, she thought she was a good person. She was feeling pretty good, at least. She had downed a couple shots of tequila chased by a couple pints of beer. Then she had another shot for good measure. As she got up to leave, the bartender yelped to her, "I'm calling you a cab!" But she yelped back, "Already did!" and watched him hang up the phone as she walked out the door.
Theresa was feeling very drowsy, very loopy, and very drunk. She pulled the keys from her pocket and placed the key into her door. Wrong key. That was the trunk door key. She tried again. There, that opened it. She plopped inside and closed the door shut and took a deep breath.
"Don't drink and drive," a sign outside the bar said. Don't drink and drive. How many times did she hear that? The television messages with the home videos of children being pushed on swingsets that later reveal that this happy smiling child was killed by a drunk driver. The text on every beer or liquor ad that said "Drink responsibly -- Don't drink and drive." She was no fool. She could read. She watched the news. And most importantly, she was a good person.
She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine groaned beneath her. But aren't you drunk? she heard a small voice ask inside. Are you okay to drive?
Of course, of course she was. Theresa was smart. She was no fool.
Not far down the road, a blue sedan was driving at 55 miles per hour. A small boy and girl lay asleep in the back, the father was reclined in the passenger seat, and the mother was driving steadily, listening to the soft sound of Fleetwood Mac on the radio. Ten minutes later, the bumper of Theresa's car severed the mother and father's heads, and flattened the boy's body. The little girl, who happened to be crouching very low as she slept, survived with a broken arm and cracked ribs.
Theresa, unfortunately, survived. She woke up in the hospital with a concussion. The nurses and doctors and aides surrounded her bed and spoke with clipped words and monotones. Something was not right, she thought. This was later confirmed by a judge during her sentencing. Her father was, unfortunately, a hot-shot lawyer with ties to the local government. Theresa did not get jail time. Instead, she was placed on probation and ordered to perform several thousand hours of community service. The media hated it and loved it.
On no particular day, Theresa took a seat in the break room of the nursing home. She had just wheeled food to the elderly for several hours. "Just breathe," she said. It was what she had told herself so many times before, during the court proceedings, during the media hounding, during her parents' torrential lectures on what a horrible thing she did was, during her daily ritual of scrolling emails that had subject lines like "Burn in hell, Theresa," "Fuck you whore," and "Murderer."
She went to the restroom and looked in the mirror and saw herself, really saw herself, and realized she was not one of the good people. The sight of the mangled bodies was branded in her memory. She murdered a family. She ruined a girl's life. In a simple moment of arrogance, she chose to be bad. She knew it wasn't a "mistake," as she tried to argue, it wasn't an "accident." She knew what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. And she did it. And thanks to her dad, she had virtually no reckoning, no punishment. A father, a mother and a brother were rotting in their graves. And Theresa was above ground and wheeling food to geriatrics.
So many times she called upon that moment, when she sat in her car with the key in the ignition, reading that sign. How simple it would have been to just follow the sign. To let the bartender call a cab. To sleep it off in the car. To do something else, anything else, other than what she actually did. She visited this moment over and over again, wishing she could change it, hating herself for being one of the bad people. She cried herself to sleep every night and wishing she could die, and knowing that so many people agreed.
What made a bad person bad? Was it the choices they made? Their intent while choosing the wrong choice? The consequences? If a person did something bad and no one got hurt, was the person bad? Bad people didn't feel regret, did they? Nor guilt? Jeffrey Dahmer apologized to the families of his victims. Wasn't he still a bad person?
Theresa didn't know what made a bad person bad. All she knew was that she was one of them.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A woman's man
"I am such a girl." This is what my friend, the Naysayer, said to me the other day. Unaware of his recent sex change operation, I asked, "You're a girl?"
"I am such a girl," he repeated.
I bit. "Why are you such a girl?"
"Because," he said matter-of-factly, "I am such a girl." Then it all came out. The Naysayer wasn't so much a girl as much as he was hopelessly pining over a girl. The Girl. The Smart Pretty Funny Girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts. (Seriously, I saw her picture.) They hung out a couple of times, and the Naysayer's confidence and all sense of dignity plummeted into the realm of uncertainty, neuroses, fear, insecurity, clinginess, and the other emotions that necessarily accompany the phenomenon of dating a smart, pretty, funny girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts.
"Oooh, I don't know if she likes me," he whined to me.
"I think she likes you," I assured him.
"Are you sure? How can you be sure? What if she doesn't?" he asked petulantly.
"Because she texted you. Unsolicited. She called you. Unsolicited. She asked you out. Twice. And she spent Valentine's Day with you," I said. "She could have been busy, you know. But no, she spent it with [insert gasp] you."
"Oooh, I hope she likes me!" he said in a falsetto voice.
"She introduced you to her friends," I added.
"She is going to dump me, isn't she?"
"She kissed you."
"It's over, isn't it?"
I groaned. Absent a marriage proposal, I was not sure how else the Girl could exhibit any more signs that she liked him. The Naysayer, since having first met the Girl, has called me at least twice a night, asking me to analyze every physical act she did or did not engage in, for example, how she didn't respond in the affirmative when he said "I'll talk to you later" as they got off the phone ("What does that mean?! I'm getting dumped!"). Each possible sign of rejection is thoroughly examined and obsessed over.
Then I wondered. Is it a "girl" thing? To obsess and pine and overanalyze and go nuts over a nuanced inflection in someone's voice when she says "pass the salt"? The careful balancing of appearing interested and attracted but not clingy or desperate? Is that "such a girl" thing to do? And if it's "such a girl" thing to do, then why do guys obsess like this?
Last night, I literally spent one hour -- one whole hour of my life that I'll never get back -- examining all the possible reasons why the Naysayer should or should not text the Girl, and if not text, then whether or not to call, and if not call, then whether or not to email. And if any of those three possibilities were to take place, then which day should contact take place? Because it was Monday and asking out for Saturday seems too clingy -- or was it just assertive and forward-thinking? "I don't want to scare her off!" "The ball's in her court, right?" "Oooh, I hope she likes me!"
Tonight the Naysayer issued his nightly report on the Girl. He did not text her last night. Instead, she texted him. ("Oooh, I hope she likes me!") He waited until this morning to text her back. Then she texted him back, asking follow-up questions. Then he texted her back, answering her questions, but, he added sheepishly, "I didn't ask her follow-up questions."
The reason I am regaling you people with this nonsensical anecdote is that I want you all to relive the experience, the scintillating experience, of being friends with a guy who is a "such a girl," but really, is just a guy.
"I am such a girl," he repeated.
I bit. "Why are you such a girl?"
"Because," he said matter-of-factly, "I am such a girl." Then it all came out. The Naysayer wasn't so much a girl as much as he was hopelessly pining over a girl. The Girl. The Smart Pretty Funny Girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts. (Seriously, I saw her picture.) They hung out a couple of times, and the Naysayer's confidence and all sense of dignity plummeted into the realm of uncertainty, neuroses, fear, insecurity, clinginess, and the other emotions that necessarily accompany the phenomenon of dating a smart, pretty, funny girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts.
"Oooh, I don't know if she likes me," he whined to me.
"I think she likes you," I assured him.
"Are you sure? How can you be sure? What if she doesn't?" he asked petulantly.
"Because she texted you. Unsolicited. She called you. Unsolicited. She asked you out. Twice. And she spent Valentine's Day with you," I said. "She could have been busy, you know. But no, she spent it with [insert gasp] you."
"Oooh, I hope she likes me!" he said in a falsetto voice.
"She introduced you to her friends," I added.
"She is going to dump me, isn't she?"
"She kissed you."
"It's over, isn't it?"
I groaned. Absent a marriage proposal, I was not sure how else the Girl could exhibit any more signs that she liked him. The Naysayer, since having first met the Girl, has called me at least twice a night, asking me to analyze every physical act she did or did not engage in, for example, how she didn't respond in the affirmative when he said "I'll talk to you later" as they got off the phone ("What does that mean?! I'm getting dumped!"). Each possible sign of rejection is thoroughly examined and obsessed over.
Then I wondered. Is it a "girl" thing? To obsess and pine and overanalyze and go nuts over a nuanced inflection in someone's voice when she says "pass the salt"? The careful balancing of appearing interested and attracted but not clingy or desperate? Is that "such a girl" thing to do? And if it's "such a girl" thing to do, then why do guys obsess like this?
Last night, I literally spent one hour -- one whole hour of my life that I'll never get back -- examining all the possible reasons why the Naysayer should or should not text the Girl, and if not text, then whether or not to call, and if not call, then whether or not to email. And if any of those three possibilities were to take place, then which day should contact take place? Because it was Monday and asking out for Saturday seems too clingy -- or was it just assertive and forward-thinking? "I don't want to scare her off!" "The ball's in her court, right?" "Oooh, I hope she likes me!"
Tonight the Naysayer issued his nightly report on the Girl. He did not text her last night. Instead, she texted him. ("Oooh, I hope she likes me!") He waited until this morning to text her back. Then she texted him back, asking follow-up questions. Then he texted her back, answering her questions, but, he added sheepishly, "I didn't ask her follow-up questions."
The reason I am regaling you people with this nonsensical anecdote is that I want you all to relive the experience, the scintillating experience, of being friends with a guy who is a "such a girl," but really, is just a guy.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A cell phone number
The other day, I was sitting in the train without a book or mp3 player to entertain me. I whipped out my cell phone and began scrolling through my address book, deleting people I no longer kept in touch with or pizza delivery places I no longer ordered from. Deleting someone from your cell phone is an interesting phenomenon. For some people, I suppose it's very perfunctory. "Never gonna talk to that person again, delete." For me, because I tend to overthink things, I wonder, "Really, am I never ever going to talk to this person ever again, ever?" (Yes, a tad dramatic. But that is what some of us do to distract ourselves from the daily monotony that is our lives.) So you never know, you just might need that taxi cab number in your cell for the next time you're in Tampa, Florida.
Of course, as I scrolled through my numbers, I inevitably encountered the entry, "Dad."
My dad got rid of his cell phone while he was alive and so I never got around to deleting it. Then after he passed away, deleting it just seemed so harsh, not to mention the last thing on my mind.
OKAY, I understand it's just an allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
But I suppose deleting his number signified the beginning of something. Something that I don't want to begin. Something uncomfortable and sad. So I tried to be perfunctory about it. Like, "Bob the Pizza guy, delete." So now it's "Dad, delete." And when my phone asked me, "Confirm Erase?" with a choice between yes and no, I couldn't help but notice the "No" option had been pre-selected, as if my cell phone were asking me, "Come on, you're not seriously thinking about deleting this entry, are you? Because if you do, it will be deleted forever. So confirm it, but I'm guessing it's 'no,' that's why I have it already selected for you."
I bit my lip, selected "Yes," and hit "Okay." And it was deleted. My cell phone was sure to display an image of an eraser moving across a floppy disk to illustrate to me that indeed, I was erasing something from the memory of my phone.
And then I began to cry. Stupid, I know. It's just a number. An allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
Of course, as I scrolled through my numbers, I inevitably encountered the entry, "Dad."
My dad got rid of his cell phone while he was alive and so I never got around to deleting it. Then after he passed away, deleting it just seemed so harsh, not to mention the last thing on my mind.
OKAY, I understand it's just an allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
But I suppose deleting his number signified the beginning of something. Something that I don't want to begin. Something uncomfortable and sad. So I tried to be perfunctory about it. Like, "Bob the Pizza guy, delete." So now it's "Dad, delete." And when my phone asked me, "Confirm Erase?" with a choice between yes and no, I couldn't help but notice the "No" option had been pre-selected, as if my cell phone were asking me, "Come on, you're not seriously thinking about deleting this entry, are you? Because if you do, it will be deleted forever. So confirm it, but I'm guessing it's 'no,' that's why I have it already selected for you."
I bit my lip, selected "Yes," and hit "Okay." And it was deleted. My cell phone was sure to display an image of an eraser moving across a floppy disk to illustrate to me that indeed, I was erasing something from the memory of my phone.
And then I began to cry. Stupid, I know. It's just a number. An allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
Fly away
There is nothing quite like walking around all day, having conversations with various co-workers and fellow elevator riders, getting a cup of coffee, chatting with the Starbucks personnel, and meandering around the office to later discover that the entire time your fly was open.
Really, nothing quite like it.
Really, nothing quite like it.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Photograph
When someone completely disappears from your life, you sometimes wonder if the person was ever there to begin with. That disappearance is so stark, so sudden, that it leaves you with the feeling that maybe you hallicinated that entire experience, that entire portion of your life involving that person, and that person altogether.
But once in a while, you rummage through your closet for a book or a pen, and you happen to see an old photo of that person. With you. And you remember, yes, there was one point where you and this person co-existed. Happy even. But the picture looks so foreign, so aged, that you wonder if it's fake, or if this is someone else's photo you're looking at.
You recall distinct memories. Specific meals with bad food. The inverted umbrella at the corner of 53rd and Third. The debate on why Healthy Choice was more cardboard-tasting than Lean Cuisine.
Yes, these events had to have happened. They're in your memory. You see them, can close your eyes and relive them, the words coming from your mouth, the sound of the person's voice, the bumpy ride in the car as you rode alongside in the passenger side, your forearm warm beneath the outdoor sun. You assure yourself, you remind yourself, yes, this person used to be here. He may be gone, but he's still here.
But once in a while, you rummage through your closet for a book or a pen, and you happen to see an old photo of that person. With you. And you remember, yes, there was one point where you and this person co-existed. Happy even. But the picture looks so foreign, so aged, that you wonder if it's fake, or if this is someone else's photo you're looking at.
You recall distinct memories. Specific meals with bad food. The inverted umbrella at the corner of 53rd and Third. The debate on why Healthy Choice was more cardboard-tasting than Lean Cuisine.
Yes, these events had to have happened. They're in your memory. You see them, can close your eyes and relive them, the words coming from your mouth, the sound of the person's voice, the bumpy ride in the car as you rode alongside in the passenger side, your forearm warm beneath the outdoor sun. You assure yourself, you remind yourself, yes, this person used to be here. He may be gone, but he's still here.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Blogger's block
It feels like it's been a while since I've blogged, but it's been only a week. I think I used to blog once, twice, sometimes three times a day. I could attribute this to busier workweeks, less drama, my dating haitus, my attempt to be more zen and complain less, among other things.
Another reason to add on top of those reasons is that I've recently begun taking a writing class. It's more like a creative writing workshop, just something I do for fun, though it's costing me a pretty penny. The instructor in the first day of class showed us a stack of books his former students had published. I'm pretty sure that every student in the workshop is itching to publish a novel or screenplay. I'm also pretty sure that very few will. So I have no delusions about being a NY Times bestseller or Book Award winner. It's just interesting to "learn" about writing creatively, when all this time, I kind of just write when I want to write. I don't think about the "craft," character development, dialogue structure, conflict and resolution. It's just sort of there.
So at the end of each class, the instructor gives us a little writing exercise. He throws out a few ideas to write on (e.g., write something using the words "albino," "sex," and "supermarket," or write something about meeting someone's parents for the first time). And then for the next half hour we write.
I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I write when I feel like it. It just sort of happens. But when I was trying to force myself to think of a story with an albino having sex with a supermarket clerk, I just couldn't do it. I mean, did anyone instruct Ernest Hemingway to write about an old dude fishing? Aren't stories just inspired, or derived from events in our lives that inspire us? I suppose every author is different.
Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Although I have to admit, it does feel nice to see your writing in print, even if it is on a blog.
Another reason to add on top of those reasons is that I've recently begun taking a writing class. It's more like a creative writing workshop, just something I do for fun, though it's costing me a pretty penny. The instructor in the first day of class showed us a stack of books his former students had published. I'm pretty sure that every student in the workshop is itching to publish a novel or screenplay. I'm also pretty sure that very few will. So I have no delusions about being a NY Times bestseller or Book Award winner. It's just interesting to "learn" about writing creatively, when all this time, I kind of just write when I want to write. I don't think about the "craft," character development, dialogue structure, conflict and resolution. It's just sort of there.
So at the end of each class, the instructor gives us a little writing exercise. He throws out a few ideas to write on (e.g., write something using the words "albino," "sex," and "supermarket," or write something about meeting someone's parents for the first time). And then for the next half hour we write.
I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I write when I feel like it. It just sort of happens. But when I was trying to force myself to think of a story with an albino having sex with a supermarket clerk, I just couldn't do it. I mean, did anyone instruct Ernest Hemingway to write about an old dude fishing? Aren't stories just inspired, or derived from events in our lives that inspire us? I suppose every author is different.
Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Although I have to admit, it does feel nice to see your writing in print, even if it is on a blog.
Friday, February 02, 2007
That wasn't me
Few things are more disturbing than surfing the web and seeing a picture of a girl on the internet who looks just like you. This has happened to me a couple times, and given the plethora of Asian chicks on the web, I suppose I'm lucky to have only seen "myself" twice. Fortunately, these Yellow Gal look-alikes were doing innocuous things like smiling for a mortgage loan ad or new web service.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Spice
There are very few things I brag about. Well, let's be honest, there are very few things I can brag about. One thing though is the sit-and-reach test. I usually get sixty-something centimeters. In other words, I can almost touch my toes with my elbows without bending my knees. Another "gift" is my tongue: I can touch my nose, my cheeks and well down my chin with my tongue. So yes, I may not have been born with fantastic brains or boobs, but I can touch my toes and lick my drool.
Yet another thing I can brag about and in fact do brag about is my ability to eat spicy food. Yeah yeah, they say every Asian has some gene that enables her/him to handle the spice; but I have yet to meet anyone who could surpass me. I intimated as much once to a co-worker.
"You are the queen of spice, you say?" he laughed, mockingly.
"Yep," I said brazenly, "I am."
He laughed at me more and I stood there, smiling demurely. When lunch time came around, I took from the office fridge a bottle of habanero sauce the Naysayer had purchased for me from Mexico. As I drenched my Au Bon Pain sandwich with the green sauce, that same co-worker asked me, "Hey Yellow Gal, can I have a dab of that?"
"Sure," I said, and handed the bottle to him. As he dripped a single droplet onto the edge of his plate, I mused over the tiny opening of the bottle. I surmised there was some reason the bottle only let out one drop at a time.
My co-worker took the edge of his turkey sandwich, tentatively dipped a sharp corner of the white bread into the eerily green sauce, and took a bite. And chewed.
I continued eating my sandwich without incident when I heard a gasp. I looked at my co-worker and his skin had changed from lily white to a brilliant shade of magenta. I watched him swallow painfully and take a gulp of his Diet Pepsi. "Oh my god," he gasped, "that sauce is SPICY."
"Oh really?" I said, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess it does have 'a kick.' "
"Come ON you have to admit it's more than just 'a kick' ..." he said between gulps of his soda.
"Yeah, I guess it does," I said amused.
That was the last time he ever mocked me.
So all my friends bow down to me in my spicy superiority and dominance over all who come before me. They grow accustomed to my expected request to the waiter to make my dishes "extra extra spicy, as spicy as you can possibly make it," my unscrewing the caps to bottles of red pepper flakes so that I could pour--not sprinkle--red pepper onto my dish, and my ability to eat habaneros and Thai peppers like they were carrots or peas.
So being the spice connoisseur, I have learned that there is a distinction between spicy foods and sauces, and foods and sauces that purport to be spicy.
My first gripe: I dislike it when a food/sauce proclaims itself to be spicy when in fact it happens to contain a little more black pepper than usual, a few specs of red pepper, and a lot of salt. The food/condiment industry seems to have mistaken saltiness for spiciness. This is simply wrong. Salt is salt. Black pepper is black pepper. Red pepper is red pepper. Simply adding Red No. 3, a fleck of red pepper, and a ton of salt does not transform a sauce into "hot sauce."
A corollary to this gripe involves the vinegar ingredient. I used to be a huge Tabasco sauce fan in high school and in college. After going through a bottle a month for several years, I frankly got sick of it. I later realized that while Tabasco sauce does contain a modicum of spiciness, its vinegar and salt overwhelms the red pepper ingredient, such that any food you happen to season with Tabasco sauce tastes like Tabasco sauce, not steak, not spaghetti, not soup. Just Tabasco sauce. I'd rather have beef that's spicy, not beef that tastes like solidified Tabasco sauce.
The better sauces have more habaneros or Thai chili peppers (as opposed to mere jalapenos or cayenne), less salt, and less vinegar. The lack of salt and vinegar allow the natural flavors of the underlying food to come through.
Okay so as you can tell, I love spicy food. I was reminded of this fact at 5 PM today. The day was waning, and I started getting the shakes. My palms began to sweat. What was going on?
Then I realized it: I hadn't consumed any spiciness all day. The absence was palpable, almost unbearable. I grabbed a cup of microwaveable soup from my stash, microwaved it, and once the microwave beeped, I seized the bowl and dribbled some of my green habanero sauce into it. The warmth on my tongue was most welcoming. It hurt so good.
So it looks like I am a walking contradiction. I am both the master of, and yet a slave to, the Spice.
Yet another thing I can brag about and in fact do brag about is my ability to eat spicy food. Yeah yeah, they say every Asian has some gene that enables her/him to handle the spice; but I have yet to meet anyone who could surpass me. I intimated as much once to a co-worker.
"You are the queen of spice, you say?" he laughed, mockingly.
"Yep," I said brazenly, "I am."
He laughed at me more and I stood there, smiling demurely. When lunch time came around, I took from the office fridge a bottle of habanero sauce the Naysayer had purchased for me from Mexico. As I drenched my Au Bon Pain sandwich with the green sauce, that same co-worker asked me, "Hey Yellow Gal, can I have a dab of that?"
"Sure," I said, and handed the bottle to him. As he dripped a single droplet onto the edge of his plate, I mused over the tiny opening of the bottle. I surmised there was some reason the bottle only let out one drop at a time.
My co-worker took the edge of his turkey sandwich, tentatively dipped a sharp corner of the white bread into the eerily green sauce, and took a bite. And chewed.
I continued eating my sandwich without incident when I heard a gasp. I looked at my co-worker and his skin had changed from lily white to a brilliant shade of magenta. I watched him swallow painfully and take a gulp of his Diet Pepsi. "Oh my god," he gasped, "that sauce is SPICY."
"Oh really?" I said, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess it does have 'a kick.' "
"Come ON you have to admit it's more than just 'a kick' ..." he said between gulps of his soda.
"Yeah, I guess it does," I said amused.
That was the last time he ever mocked me.
So all my friends bow down to me in my spicy superiority and dominance over all who come before me. They grow accustomed to my expected request to the waiter to make my dishes "extra extra spicy, as spicy as you can possibly make it," my unscrewing the caps to bottles of red pepper flakes so that I could pour--not sprinkle--red pepper onto my dish, and my ability to eat habaneros and Thai peppers like they were carrots or peas.
So being the spice connoisseur, I have learned that there is a distinction between spicy foods and sauces, and foods and sauces that purport to be spicy.
My first gripe: I dislike it when a food/sauce proclaims itself to be spicy when in fact it happens to contain a little more black pepper than usual, a few specs of red pepper, and a lot of salt. The food/condiment industry seems to have mistaken saltiness for spiciness. This is simply wrong. Salt is salt. Black pepper is black pepper. Red pepper is red pepper. Simply adding Red No. 3, a fleck of red pepper, and a ton of salt does not transform a sauce into "hot sauce."
A corollary to this gripe involves the vinegar ingredient. I used to be a huge Tabasco sauce fan in high school and in college. After going through a bottle a month for several years, I frankly got sick of it. I later realized that while Tabasco sauce does contain a modicum of spiciness, its vinegar and salt overwhelms the red pepper ingredient, such that any food you happen to season with Tabasco sauce tastes like Tabasco sauce, not steak, not spaghetti, not soup. Just Tabasco sauce. I'd rather have beef that's spicy, not beef that tastes like solidified Tabasco sauce.
The better sauces have more habaneros or Thai chili peppers (as opposed to mere jalapenos or cayenne), less salt, and less vinegar. The lack of salt and vinegar allow the natural flavors of the underlying food to come through.
Okay so as you can tell, I love spicy food. I was reminded of this fact at 5 PM today. The day was waning, and I started getting the shakes. My palms began to sweat. What was going on?
Then I realized it: I hadn't consumed any spiciness all day. The absence was palpable, almost unbearable. I grabbed a cup of microwaveable soup from my stash, microwaved it, and once the microwave beeped, I seized the bowl and dribbled some of my green habanero sauce into it. The warmth on my tongue was most welcoming. It hurt so good.
So it looks like I am a walking contradiction. I am both the master of, and yet a slave to, the Spice.
Monday, January 29, 2007
My spam box rocks
Case in point:
He dreamed of Annie Wilkes in the court of some fabulous Arabian caliph, conjuring imps and genies from bottles and then flying around the court on a magic carpet. Its only five in the afternoon, but that is no problem for these kitties; as far as South American lions are concerned, that dinner-at-eight shit is for goofballs.Who makes this ish up?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Just a tip
Fellas, never, ever send a desperate, needy email to a girl you really like who doesn't like you back at all and include in the email things like the following:
I do and will always love and lust after you from this moment until the end of time, for ever and ever. If you ever change your mind about us, and, in my endeavor to deserve you, you decide to give me a chance, I will forever be grateful and will be here for you with open arms. Until then, I will always cherish the memories I have of us and will thank God that I at least had the chance to know someone as beautiful, wonderful and sexy as you.If you do send such an email to a girl, she will forward it to her girlfriends, and her girlfriends will forward it to their girlfriends, and one of these latter girlfriends will post portions of your email in her blog. Chances are, fellas, that such an email will not persuade the girl to fall in love with you. So please, don't do it.
It goes.
She had a problem. A mindset problem. It's something she knew she could fix. She just needed to want to fix it. The solution to her problem was simple: Just let it go. Her problem was similarly simple: Little things irritated her.
The little things varied in scope. It could be the guy pushing the "close" button from inside the elevator incessantly even though he sees her running towards the elevator yelling "Hold the door!" or a co-worker rolling his eyes at her because she put a little too much skim in his grande americano. "Let it go," she would think to herself. "Just let it go."
"But hold on a sec," she would think, "What the F? It's not the little thing that's irritating me, it's the principle! And that person is just wrong."
Negativity appeared to be contagious. So a part of her wondered, Why did she let it get to her instead of letting it go? Did she enjoy being pissy and irritable? No. Then why the heck did she dwell on the elevator guy or grande americano dude?
Then she realized it. She was holding onto her irritation. Clung to it, actually, like a bratty baby. In a world where she had absolutely no control, where small acts of meanness just grinded against her mood like sandpaper, the only way she could exert some semblance of control was to be mad back. Being angry was a way to avoid being the victim and doormat to the world's bitchiness. Anger was proud, self-righteous and, most importantly, justified.
But that mindset was not healthy and probably not the path to happiness, much less world peace. Negativity was not only contagious, but virtually epidemic nowadays. So instead of allowing it to breed, she resolved to just let it stop where it began. Let the elevator door close. Let the eyes roll. Let it go.
Just let it go.
The little things varied in scope. It could be the guy pushing the "close" button from inside the elevator incessantly even though he sees her running towards the elevator yelling "Hold the door!" or a co-worker rolling his eyes at her because she put a little too much skim in his grande americano. "Let it go," she would think to herself. "Just let it go."
"But hold on a sec," she would think, "What the F? It's not the little thing that's irritating me, it's the principle! And that person is just wrong."
Negativity appeared to be contagious. So a part of her wondered, Why did she let it get to her instead of letting it go? Did she enjoy being pissy and irritable? No. Then why the heck did she dwell on the elevator guy or grande americano dude?
Then she realized it. She was holding onto her irritation. Clung to it, actually, like a bratty baby. In a world where she had absolutely no control, where small acts of meanness just grinded against her mood like sandpaper, the only way she could exert some semblance of control was to be mad back. Being angry was a way to avoid being the victim and doormat to the world's bitchiness. Anger was proud, self-righteous and, most importantly, justified.
But that mindset was not healthy and probably not the path to happiness, much less world peace. Negativity was not only contagious, but virtually epidemic nowadays. So instead of allowing it to breed, she resolved to just let it stop where it began. Let the elevator door close. Let the eyes roll. Let it go.
Just let it go.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The test
I really want to be happy. Really I do. And that means I should adjust my attitude. Be less self-focused. Put myself in other people's shoes. And once I understand where other people are coming from, and try -- really try -- to be patient, I'll be less aggravated by the rampant stupidity of the general population and be happier.
So as I mentioned before, I don't like my friend's boyfriend. My challenge to myself is this: Try to like him. Get to know him. Who knows, maybe he'll win me over the way he won over my friend.
Now simply setting forth the goal of liking an unlikeable guy is one thing. Putting it into practice is another. I was tested when I had, a couple days ago, asked my friend to dinner for tapas. She said sure. Then later on, the Test materialized:
First, she called me up later asking if she could bring her boyfriend. I mentally grimaced, cringed and shuddered; but I said sure. Maybe, just maybe if I gave him another chance, he'd grow on me and undo the first ten negative impressions he made on me with undeniable charm and good-naturedness.
Then, she said that her boyfriend was actually looking to try Moroccan food.
Now, I love Moroccan food. But I've been craving tapas for the past few days. Hence, my invitation to dinner for tapas.
So this boyfriend who I am trying very hard to like has already (1) interloped in my gal pal time with my gal pal, while simulteaneously creating the very real possibility of third-wheel-dom, and (2) supplanted my suggestion of tapas with his suggestion of Moroccan food. Of course, my friend ends each suggestion with some generic useless statement of "only if you want to."
As I mentioned before, this is a test. An exercise. First, there is the question of how to tactfully say something to the effect of "I don't want to eat with your annoying-as-hell boyfriend and I want my tapas, damnit, not Moroccan food, not Cambodian food, not Somalian food, but frigging tapas damnit!" Second, there is the question of whether I'm purposely being difficult because I don't want to like the guy.
Okay I admit. I am being difficult. And really, there are worse things in the world than having a friend who wants you to get along with her irritating boyfriend and eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
So this is my test. Have dinner with a guy I can't stand. Be a third un-squeaky wheel. And eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
The pathway to happiness begins.
So as I mentioned before, I don't like my friend's boyfriend. My challenge to myself is this: Try to like him. Get to know him. Who knows, maybe he'll win me over the way he won over my friend.
Now simply setting forth the goal of liking an unlikeable guy is one thing. Putting it into practice is another. I was tested when I had, a couple days ago, asked my friend to dinner for tapas. She said sure. Then later on, the Test materialized:
First, she called me up later asking if she could bring her boyfriend. I mentally grimaced, cringed and shuddered; but I said sure. Maybe, just maybe if I gave him another chance, he'd grow on me and undo the first ten negative impressions he made on me with undeniable charm and good-naturedness.
Then, she said that her boyfriend was actually looking to try Moroccan food.
Now, I love Moroccan food. But I've been craving tapas for the past few days. Hence, my invitation to dinner for tapas.
So this boyfriend who I am trying very hard to like has already (1) interloped in my gal pal time with my gal pal, while simulteaneously creating the very real possibility of third-wheel-dom, and (2) supplanted my suggestion of tapas with his suggestion of Moroccan food. Of course, my friend ends each suggestion with some generic useless statement of "only if you want to."
As I mentioned before, this is a test. An exercise. First, there is the question of how to tactfully say something to the effect of "I don't want to eat with your annoying-as-hell boyfriend and I want my tapas, damnit, not Moroccan food, not Cambodian food, not Somalian food, but frigging tapas damnit!" Second, there is the question of whether I'm purposely being difficult because I don't want to like the guy.
Okay I admit. I am being difficult. And really, there are worse things in the world than having a friend who wants you to get along with her irritating boyfriend and eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
So this is my test. Have dinner with a guy I can't stand. Be a third un-squeaky wheel. And eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
The pathway to happiness begins.
Monday, January 08, 2007
That's me
Once again, I exhibit utmost sophistication and grace when, after briefly talking with my boss, I discover I had a piece of muffin -- a piece that does not look entirely unlike snot -- clinging to the tip of my nose.
Sophistication and grace, my friends, sophistication and grace.
Sophistication and grace, my friends, sophistication and grace.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Bum-licious
I've been chillin' like a villain with my mom, my bro, and the two resident kittens (one of which is Billy, hater of baths) in the idyllic burb I grew up in. I think my mom really enjoys taking care of two kittens. As she has indicated to both me and my bro, she really wants grandchildren. I suppose the kitties will have to serve as surrogates.
So for the last week, I have literally been doing nothing. And it's great. Sleeping 11 hours a day, surfing the web, reading for pleasure, watching DVDs, jogging in the park, and eating artery-clogging, unhealthy food. It makes me wonder why the phrase "lazy bum" has such a negative connotation, when in reality, it is a magnificent lifestyle. At least, a magnificent reprieve from the mound of work that awaits me in my office in the Big Big City.
Yet as the day of my return approaches, I feel the weight of the work that was due last month press upon me. I resisted checking my work email until this afternoon. Nothing of note, thank goodness.
So this has been my week off. Time to turn the work dial to "on."
So for the last week, I have literally been doing nothing. And it's great. Sleeping 11 hours a day, surfing the web, reading for pleasure, watching DVDs, jogging in the park, and eating artery-clogging, unhealthy food. It makes me wonder why the phrase "lazy bum" has such a negative connotation, when in reality, it is a magnificent lifestyle. At least, a magnificent reprieve from the mound of work that awaits me in my office in the Big Big City.
Yet as the day of my return approaches, I feel the weight of the work that was due last month press upon me. I resisted checking my work email until this afternoon. Nothing of note, thank goodness.
So this has been my week off. Time to turn the work dial to "on."
Monday, December 25, 2006
The Bath
Billy the cat did not want to be bathed. He was going to be bathed and he knew as much, but he really did not want to be bathed. In particular, he did not want to be submerged in a bin of lukewarm water where two hands would violate him in the most violating way by rubbing anti-flea shampoo into his coat and rinsing it.
Billy knew it was a day of The Bath as soon as he heard the sounds of a faucet turning on and water running into a bin. Two familiar arms wrapped around his body and lifted him up. There ain't no way, Billy thought to himself, ain't no way! The Bath was as inevitable as a trip to the litter box, but he knew he had to at least try to escape. And so, as the splashing sound of running water became too much to bear, Billy made a break for it.
Exhibiting super-feline strength, he pried apart the arms that held him and immediately climbed the shoulders of the person carrying him, ears fully perked, whiskers fully raised. This is it, he though, his heart thumping in his perked ears, my escape! Yet before he could pounce off the shoulders into the great beyond, the hands firmly grasped his flank, and repositioned him. And before he knew it, he felt the sickening sensation of warm water surrounding his hind legs and he realized with horror that he was in The Bath.
As warm water tricked down his back and ran down his shoulders, he never stopped trying to escape his foamy fate. He nudged his nose through the curtain of the bathtub, his eyes blinking wildly, hoping that he could escape the two hands that held him firmly in his bath. But each time he stretched his neck, the hand would pull him back to The Bath, the warm, sudsy bath where an unintelligible voice would speak to him, words of another species that, for the time being, he hated so much for subjecting him to the indignity of wet fur and artificially fragrant anti-flea shampoo.
Indeed, Billy hated The Bath. Yet afterwards, he would be lifted into a soft white towel where he was tousled and was allowed to run freely and compose himself by properly grooming the feline fro The Bath undoubtedly created.
No hard feelings, Billy thought to himself as he licked his left paw. They do it because they care. Another lick to the paw.
Plus, next time, I will escape.
Billy knew it was a day of The Bath as soon as he heard the sounds of a faucet turning on and water running into a bin. Two familiar arms wrapped around his body and lifted him up. There ain't no way, Billy thought to himself, ain't no way! The Bath was as inevitable as a trip to the litter box, but he knew he had to at least try to escape. And so, as the splashing sound of running water became too much to bear, Billy made a break for it.
Exhibiting super-feline strength, he pried apart the arms that held him and immediately climbed the shoulders of the person carrying him, ears fully perked, whiskers fully raised. This is it, he though, his heart thumping in his perked ears, my escape! Yet before he could pounce off the shoulders into the great beyond, the hands firmly grasped his flank, and repositioned him. And before he knew it, he felt the sickening sensation of warm water surrounding his hind legs and he realized with horror that he was in The Bath.
As warm water tricked down his back and ran down his shoulders, he never stopped trying to escape his foamy fate. He nudged his nose through the curtain of the bathtub, his eyes blinking wildly, hoping that he could escape the two hands that held him firmly in his bath. But each time he stretched his neck, the hand would pull him back to The Bath, the warm, sudsy bath where an unintelligible voice would speak to him, words of another species that, for the time being, he hated so much for subjecting him to the indignity of wet fur and artificially fragrant anti-flea shampoo.
Indeed, Billy hated The Bath. Yet afterwards, he would be lifted into a soft white towel where he was tousled and was allowed to run freely and compose himself by properly grooming the feline fro The Bath undoubtedly created.
No hard feelings, Billy thought to himself as he licked his left paw. They do it because they care. Another lick to the paw.
Plus, next time, I will escape.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
It's a lovely river in Egypt
I looked in the mirror the other day and saw that I looked like an old woman, one of those old Asian women with the plastic bags who hunch over their slippers and crouch on the sidewalk with their hands linked behind their backs. I contemplated changing my blog headline to "Musings of an Asian American Hag." But I won't. I realized that the recent advent of stress and angst had something to do with my looking like shit. So I have decided to make myself happy. Throughout this weekend, whenever the weight of work started to creep into my mind, I pushed it off my chest and told myself, "I'm not going to think about it." The guilt of not having done a single lick of work either Saturday or Sunday was also summarily pushed aside. This was my weekend. Work and Guilt owned me for the past three months. They will not own me now.
I will also make it my goal to be more faithful to my workout routine (which, due to work and lack of motivation, has been nonexistent). I also hear exercise is great at alleviating stress and angst.
There is something to be said for these defense mechanisms, like repression or denial. On this Sunday evening, I am going to pretend I have absolutely nothing to do. And enjoy it.
I will also make it my goal to be more faithful to my workout routine (which, due to work and lack of motivation, has been nonexistent). I also hear exercise is great at alleviating stress and angst.
There is something to be said for these defense mechanisms, like repression or denial. On this Sunday evening, I am going to pretend I have absolutely nothing to do. And enjoy it.
Ain't no party like a holiday party
There is nothing quite as painful as going to a holiday party full of fifty to a hundred lawyers dressed in aptly stiff suits. I saw them and talked with them and they responded to and in turn asked questions. So they seemed like they were human. They breathed. They ate. And I assume they had pulses. But beyond their trite quips, pseudointellectual banter, and plastered smiles, I wondered, was there anything more? Were they really human?
To further my investigation, I consumed three glasses of Cabernet which had the pleasant side-effect of numbing my pain and forced myself to talk to these seemingly human things.
It was amazing. These "people," they were completely hollow. Empty walking things that appeared to be humans, but were in fact not. Is this what thirty years of practicing law did to a person? Suck their souls and leave only a collection of self-important anecdotes in the husk of their former selves?
In one of the more interesting five-second conversations, one of the seemingly human things shook my hand and asked, "What may I ask is your name?"
"Yellow Gal," I replied, forcing a smile.
"Ah, Yellow Gal," it replied, "What a remarkable name!"
"Uh, thanks," I replied, thinking it was quite unremarkable. I looked around the room and realized the gray-haired thing probably never encountered a Yellow attorney before and thought any name resembling Yellowness was akin to "Lotus Blossom" or "Mandarin Orange."
After five or six-hundred of these short conversations, I realized my initial conclusions were correct. But I became even more curious. How did they do it? Were they really this vapid, through-and-through? Were they at one point, real humans who became the undead? Or were these real humans posing as the undead posing as humans to blend in with the undead?
Soon, the mind-numbing effect of the party coupled with the numbing wine gave way to a headache. I was feeling pain -- this meant I was alive. This meant I was at least human.
At least for now.
To further my investigation, I consumed three glasses of Cabernet which had the pleasant side-effect of numbing my pain and forced myself to talk to these seemingly human things.
It was amazing. These "people," they were completely hollow. Empty walking things that appeared to be humans, but were in fact not. Is this what thirty years of practicing law did to a person? Suck their souls and leave only a collection of self-important anecdotes in the husk of their former selves?
In one of the more interesting five-second conversations, one of the seemingly human things shook my hand and asked, "What may I ask is your name?"
"Yellow Gal," I replied, forcing a smile.
"Ah, Yellow Gal," it replied, "What a remarkable name!"
"Uh, thanks," I replied, thinking it was quite unremarkable. I looked around the room and realized the gray-haired thing probably never encountered a Yellow attorney before and thought any name resembling Yellowness was akin to "Lotus Blossom" or "Mandarin Orange."
After five or six-hundred of these short conversations, I realized my initial conclusions were correct. But I became even more curious. How did they do it? Were they really this vapid, through-and-through? Were they at one point, real humans who became the undead? Or were these real humans posing as the undead posing as humans to blend in with the undead?
Soon, the mind-numbing effect of the party coupled with the numbing wine gave way to a headache. I was feeling pain -- this meant I was alive. This meant I was at least human.
At least for now.
It's a river in Egypt
I really dislike my friend's boyfriend. I REALLY dislike him. I won't delve too much into the reasons, except to say that (1) when I first met him, he made a somewhat racist "joke" about Asian women (which as everyone here knows, I absolutely LOVE), and (2) every time I speak with him or hear him speak of me to my friend, he remarks on something about me that pisses me off.
But my other gal pal advises that I not say anything to that effect, because it will strain the friendship unnecessarily. And I must admit, the boyfriend makes my friend pretty happy, he treats her well, and neither of them should have to be subjected to my knee-jerk, over-PC hypersensitivity.
Then a part of me wonders, maybe it's not him I necessarily dislike. Maybe the issue is my being single. Maybe I'm just jealous and I just can't take the fact that someone who goes out with only a few guys in the last few months finds a great guy, and I, having been on a dating rampage for the past few months, can't find just one good guy. Maybe I'm suppressing my jealousy because it reveals how insecure and weak I am. And she's one of my closest friends--what kind of friend would harbor any negative feelings solely because her friend is happy? How horrible and selfish is that?
Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize, nah. The guy really is an asshole.
But my other gal pal advises that I not say anything to that effect, because it will strain the friendship unnecessarily. And I must admit, the boyfriend makes my friend pretty happy, he treats her well, and neither of them should have to be subjected to my knee-jerk, over-PC hypersensitivity.
Then a part of me wonders, maybe it's not him I necessarily dislike. Maybe the issue is my being single. Maybe I'm just jealous and I just can't take the fact that someone who goes out with only a few guys in the last few months finds a great guy, and I, having been on a dating rampage for the past few months, can't find just one good guy. Maybe I'm suppressing my jealousy because it reveals how insecure and weak I am. And she's one of my closest friends--what kind of friend would harbor any negative feelings solely because her friend is happy? How horrible and selfish is that?
Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize, nah. The guy really is an asshole.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
An almost-lapse in judgment
Just when I decided to take a haitus on dating and definitively write off 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable men (such as very very cute guy), today of all days I get a text from the guy referenced in my post, Fun boys, who is another 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable man. His timing couldn't be more perfect, given my present vulnerable state. I was actually tempted to text him back. Maybe he's changed, I rationalized, he must really really like me if he's texting me, maybe he's realized the error of his ways!
Right.
You know, for someone who purports to have a three-digit IQ, I can sometimes be really stupid. At any rate, I did not text him back. But I can't say I wasn't tempted.
Right.
You know, for someone who purports to have a three-digit IQ, I can sometimes be really stupid. At any rate, I did not text him back. But I can't say I wasn't tempted.
It never ends
My blog seems to have inadvertently become a running tally of funny things that guys do or don't do. To add to the list:
My South Asian friend was in a bar with some friends. A white guy walked up to her, gazed at her for a moment, and cooed, "You're exotic and erotic."
Dude's a poet and didn't know it!
Another incident was when I was at a (different) bar and I felt a guy tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
"Hi," he said, smiling.
"Hi," I replied, musing over his greasy pony-tail.
"Are you Chinese?"
"No," I said.
"Are you Japanese?"
"No," I said.
"Well, I know one thing you are -- beautiful."
"Uhh, ha ha," I said in a half-grimace, "thanks." Then I turned around and resumed talking to my friend.
Keep 'em coming, guys, keep 'em coming.
My South Asian friend was in a bar with some friends. A white guy walked up to her, gazed at her for a moment, and cooed, "You're exotic and erotic."
Dude's a poet and didn't know it!
Another incident was when I was at a (different) bar and I felt a guy tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
"Hi," he said, smiling.
"Hi," I replied, musing over his greasy pony-tail.
"Are you Chinese?"
"No," I said.
"Are you Japanese?"
"No," I said.
"Well, I know one thing you are -- beautiful."
"Uhh, ha ha," I said in a half-grimace, "thanks." Then I turned around and resumed talking to my friend.
Keep 'em coming, guys, keep 'em coming.
That's me
I find it amusing that when someone did a google search for "dating debacles," my blog came up as a search result. Come one, come all -- I am a repository of dating debacles.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Another inane quiz result
I always thought I had the "perfect" accent. Oh well.
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak. | |
| Philadelphia | |
| Boston | |
| The Inland North | |
| The Midland | |
| The South | |
| The West | |
| North Central | |
| What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz | |
Q & A
Question to my good friend, The Naysayer: "The Naysayer, why am I so attracted to bad guys?"
The Naysayer sayeth: "Because you're a girl."
The Naysayer sayeth: "Because you're a girl."
And back to our regularly scheduled program
According to this blog-type quiz, the OkCupid Test, I am "The Battleaxe": Deliberate Brutal Love Master (DBLMf).
So not me! Anyhow, the analysis goes further:
So not me! Anyhow, the analysis goes further:
Sharp. Hardened. Dominating. The Battleaxe sweeps all before her, smiting and what not.Like I said, so not me!
You've had a number of serious relationships, so you obviously have many attractive qualities. You're well experienced in dealing with other people's weirdnesses, and it's likely you're good in bed by now, too. Also, like the drunken housewife chucking Heinekens at her no-good husband, you've got a lot of energy.
People can tell you're sophisticated, and so you find yourself the object of infatuations quite often. But it's how you handle yourself in your relationships that gets you the 'brutal' tag. Controlling? Imperious? Overbearing? Yes, please.
Remarkably, you don't mind the same from your men. You've experience enough to take whatever you dish out. Overall, you're a very good person and a capable lover, and when the time comes you'll make a fine divorcee.
ALWAYS AVOID: The Poolboy
CONSIDER: The False Messiah, someone just like you.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Happy birthday to me
I just had an enlightening talk with one of my bosses. He wished me a happy birthday, talked about where he was at age 29, and how far he's come now that he's in his fifties. I mentioned how demoralized I've been with the dating scene, and asked him, given his age of fifty-something, what he could impart to a single 29-year old. Some very interesting advice, apparently:
A person sometimes mistakenly believes that once she meets the right person, i.e., The One, this right person will somehow see, accept and subsequently assuage all of her insecurities, issues and neuroses. The love and validation that Mommy, Daddy or the Boss never gave her can be found in this one person. This hope gives way to optimism over this one person, because maybe, just maybe, this one will be the right one, and the right one will make everything better.
That is a mistake.
A person can't piggyback all of her problems or hinge her happiness and future hopes on one person, or any person for that matter. Nor can she hinge her happiness on her career. She has to first be happy with ... *corny alert* ... herself. In other words, she must suffice.
His words struck a chord with me. I've been bummed lately, due to lack of validation from work and men; all this time, I've been looking outward to be happy. And that was a mistake.
So my boss suggested following through on my interests, take a class, join a club. The agenda shouldn't be Finding A Man. It should be Doing Something I Actually Enjoy. He admitted that it might sound kind of corny, e.g., a single yuppie joining a book club with a bunch of other loners, but f that. If it's fun and you enjoy it, then do it. And doing something you enjoy actually makes you (surprise surprise) happier.
Also, he suggested trying to contain optimism. He knew it was easier said than done as he himself struggled with that in his single days. Try to contain the oh-my-god-he's-perfect! with eh-who-cares-if-it-happens-it-happens.
So I found all that very refreshing. It helped to hear that I'm not the only one who can feel be foolishly optimistic and subsequently demoralized by the disappointing dating scene, as he too went through the same pangs I am going through right now. It was also nice to hear that there is an explanation for the way I've been feeling and that there's at least one way to assuage the angst.
All in all, a well-received and very, dare I say, hopeful birthday present.
A person sometimes mistakenly believes that once she meets the right person, i.e., The One, this right person will somehow see, accept and subsequently assuage all of her insecurities, issues and neuroses. The love and validation that Mommy, Daddy or the Boss never gave her can be found in this one person. This hope gives way to optimism over this one person, because maybe, just maybe, this one will be the right one, and the right one will make everything better.
That is a mistake.
A person can't piggyback all of her problems or hinge her happiness and future hopes on one person, or any person for that matter. Nor can she hinge her happiness on her career. She has to first be happy with ... *corny alert* ... herself. In other words, she must suffice.
His words struck a chord with me. I've been bummed lately, due to lack of validation from work and men; all this time, I've been looking outward to be happy. And that was a mistake.
So my boss suggested following through on my interests, take a class, join a club. The agenda shouldn't be Finding A Man. It should be Doing Something I Actually Enjoy. He admitted that it might sound kind of corny, e.g., a single yuppie joining a book club with a bunch of other loners, but f that. If it's fun and you enjoy it, then do it. And doing something you enjoy actually makes you (surprise surprise) happier.
Also, he suggested trying to contain optimism. He knew it was easier said than done as he himself struggled with that in his single days. Try to contain the oh-my-god-he's-perfect! with eh-who-cares-if-it-happens-it-happens.
So I found all that very refreshing. It helped to hear that I'm not the only one who can feel be foolishly optimistic and subsequently demoralized by the disappointing dating scene, as he too went through the same pangs I am going through right now. It was also nice to hear that there is an explanation for the way I've been feeling and that there's at least one way to assuage the angst.
All in all, a well-received and very, dare I say, hopeful birthday present.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Will the fun ever end?
The only thing more fun than realizing that one is being unceremoniously blown off by a very very cute guy is going to a bar with your girlfriend, lookng down the bar, and spotting the very very cute guy who spots you simultaneously--with a very very cute girl neatly tucked under his arm.
Really, it's a lot of fun.
In my case, the very very cute guy whispered something into the very very cute girl's ear and pointed me out, at which point she walked away from him, past me, giving me a less than friendly look. Then he walked up to me and uttered a few pleasantries, with, unsurprisingly, flirtatious overtones. He asked me what I was doing Sunday, I replied "nothing," and he said, "I'll call you." And smiled. Then he said "Oh my friends and I are meeting up later. So it was nice seeing you today." And smiled again. Then we parted ways.
Then for the next several hours, I watched with a mix of disbelief and grief, the very very cute guy and the very very cute girl all over each other. In front of me.
Did I mention this was a lot of fun?
So I, Yellow Gal, am proud to say that I have discovered, yes discovered, a mathematical equation:
Romantic devastation + Self-deprecation + 5 martinis = Crying in a bathroom stall on girlfriend's shoulder
People say that things happen for a reason. And maybe Something or Someone made me and my friend choose -- out of all the bars in the Big Big City -- the one bar the very very cute guy was at, and made us decide -- out of all the rooms and corridors in the bar -- the one area the very very cute guy was in with his very very cute girl who, by the way, was also a Yellow attorney. (Can a guy have a fetish for Yellow attorneys?)
Needless to say, last night was not the best way to start off my birthday weekend. I wish I could just insert some witty remark here and laugh it all off as just another one of Yellow Gal's dating debacles. Yet after a while, making jokes about one's disappointments just doesn't quite get rid of the sting of the disappointment itself. It's not "fun," as I like to quip. Not fun at all.
Really, it's a lot of fun.
In my case, the very very cute guy whispered something into the very very cute girl's ear and pointed me out, at which point she walked away from him, past me, giving me a less than friendly look. Then he walked up to me and uttered a few pleasantries, with, unsurprisingly, flirtatious overtones. He asked me what I was doing Sunday, I replied "nothing," and he said, "I'll call you." And smiled. Then he said "Oh my friends and I are meeting up later. So it was nice seeing you today." And smiled again. Then we parted ways.
Then for the next several hours, I watched with a mix of disbelief and grief, the very very cute guy and the very very cute girl all over each other. In front of me.
Did I mention this was a lot of fun?
So I, Yellow Gal, am proud to say that I have discovered, yes discovered, a mathematical equation:
Romantic devastation + Self-deprecation + 5 martinis = Crying in a bathroom stall on girlfriend's shoulder
People say that things happen for a reason. And maybe Something or Someone made me and my friend choose -- out of all the bars in the Big Big City -- the one bar the very very cute guy was at, and made us decide -- out of all the rooms and corridors in the bar -- the one area the very very cute guy was in with his very very cute girl who, by the way, was also a Yellow attorney. (Can a guy have a fetish for Yellow attorneys?)
Needless to say, last night was not the best way to start off my birthday weekend. I wish I could just insert some witty remark here and laugh it all off as just another one of Yellow Gal's dating debacles. Yet after a while, making jokes about one's disappointments just doesn't quite get rid of the sting of the disappointment itself. It's not "fun," as I like to quip. Not fun at all.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Really fun boys
Being unceremoniously blown off (a.k.a. being dumped) is a very interesting phenomenon. My theory is that a girl goes through the five stages of grief when a guy tacitly dumps her by never contacting her ever again.
Denial
There's no way he's dumping me. I'm a catch! I got it going on. Plus he used the words "we" and "couple" the other day. No, he is just busy with work. Or in a coma.
Anger
What the f***?! Why the f*** isn't he f***ing calling me? That f***ing **** ********* piece of ****! F*** him!
Bargaining
Oh, if he'd only just call me, I'll lose more weight, I'll dress better, I won't make fun of Star Jones.
Depression
My life sucks. I'm dumb, vapid and ugly. And I still don't know how to parallel park. I will therefore die alone next to my cat Fluffy.
Acceptance
Yep I got dumped. That wasn't too fun. But I survived. Next!
In case the reader can't tell, I am amidst the angst of being unceremoniously blown off, no less by the very very cute guy.
First, I ponder over what I did wrong. Then I think, dude, I didn't do anything wrong. Then I wonder, wtf, how can I let one guy, one guy, get to me like this? And then I realize, the downside to being a hopeful romantic optimist (i.e. a dumbass) is inevitable disappointment.
So to correct one of my previous posts, boys aren't just fun, they're really fun!
Denial
There's no way he's dumping me. I'm a catch! I got it going on. Plus he used the words "we" and "couple" the other day. No, he is just busy with work. Or in a coma.
Anger
What the f***?! Why the f*** isn't he f***ing calling me? That f***ing **** ********* piece of ****! F*** him!
Bargaining
Oh, if he'd only just call me, I'll lose more weight, I'll dress better, I won't make fun of Star Jones.
Depression
My life sucks. I'm dumb, vapid and ugly. And I still don't know how to parallel park. I will therefore die alone next to my cat Fluffy.
Acceptance
Yep I got dumped. That wasn't too fun. But I survived. Next!
In case the reader can't tell, I am amidst the angst of being unceremoniously blown off, no less by the very very cute guy.
First, I ponder over what I did wrong. Then I think, dude, I didn't do anything wrong. Then I wonder, wtf, how can I let one guy, one guy, get to me like this? And then I realize, the downside to being a hopeful romantic optimist (i.e. a dumbass) is inevitable disappointment.
So to correct one of my previous posts, boys aren't just fun, they're really fun!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Musings of a late-twenty-something-year-old gal
When I first got my driver's license at age 16, I looked at the expiration date and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm going to be 20 when this expires." Then when 20 rolled around, I looked at my driver's license and thought, "Wow, I can't believe I was 16 in this picture."
My birthday is just next week and I will be turning the big 2-9. Which sounds very surreal to me because I feel like I'm in my mid twenties, like 25-ish. And when I was 25, I thought I was going to marry my then-boyfriend. Pop my first kid out by 29 and my second by 31. Have a family, a career, a house, a cat and a dog. But I'm no where near that, well, except for the career, and we all know how great I feel about that. And while I have no regrets about breaking up with my then-boyfriend, I still can't help but muse over the fact that at age 29, I'm at the same stage I was at age 25. A little bit more experienced perhaps, a bit more educated, a bit more income, but substantially the same.
The idea of being happy sounds like such a simple idea. We are told that if you do x, y and z, you will be happy. Yet I have seen people do x, y and z, and learn much too late that it wasn't so simple after all. And isn't there a distinction between being content and being happy? Should I be content with being content? To me, "being content" connotes settling, a tacit resignation to a life less than one hoped for, and worse, less than what one deserves. Perhaps I'm clinging to my naive twenty-something optimism, but I'm just not quite yet ready to settle for "being content."
No, I think I would rather be happy.
My birthday is just next week and I will be turning the big 2-9. Which sounds very surreal to me because I feel like I'm in my mid twenties, like 25-ish. And when I was 25, I thought I was going to marry my then-boyfriend. Pop my first kid out by 29 and my second by 31. Have a family, a career, a house, a cat and a dog. But I'm no where near that, well, except for the career, and we all know how great I feel about that. And while I have no regrets about breaking up with my then-boyfriend, I still can't help but muse over the fact that at age 29, I'm at the same stage I was at age 25. A little bit more experienced perhaps, a bit more educated, a bit more income, but substantially the same.
The idea of being happy sounds like such a simple idea. We are told that if you do x, y and z, you will be happy. Yet I have seen people do x, y and z, and learn much too late that it wasn't so simple after all. And isn't there a distinction between being content and being happy? Should I be content with being content? To me, "being content" connotes settling, a tacit resignation to a life less than one hoped for, and worse, less than what one deserves. Perhaps I'm clinging to my naive twenty-something optimism, but I'm just not quite yet ready to settle for "being content."
No, I think I would rather be happy.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Hello. My name's Forrest, Forrest Gump.
At 12:30 PM, I realize for the first time that I've been walking around all day wearing my shirt inside out.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Good times.
I just went to my cousin's wedding. Yes, I've woken up at 5:30 in the morning, as my sleep is fucked up from drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniels my other cousin snuck into the reception. One of the great things about going to a wedding that involves those of Yellow descent, and more specifically, relatives of Yellow descent, is that people feel the need, the overpowering urge, to approach you--if you so happened to be a single, unattached, 28-year-old--and ask you or tell you some combination of the following:
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"You need to get married!"
"When are you going to get married?"
"It's so important to get married and have a family."
and best of all
"You're next!"
Interspersed between the twenty or so times various relatives felt the need to remind me that I am indeed without a boyfriend, that I am indeed single, and that I do indeed need to get married, was my mother, who looked at my face and told me how I've aged and there were a number of skin care professionals who could fix that. After she told me this five or six times, I remarked on the patch of hair growing out of her mole on her face and asked her if she was growing a mustache. Then I asked her if she was, in fact, a woman, if perhaps she were not really a man. She laughed at me and said, "Ooh, did I upset you?"
"No," I said.
"You're talking so fast. I can tell I upset you," she said to me, smiling.
I felt the tears rush to my eyes. My mom taking obvious pleasure in the fact that she got under my skin was the last straw.
"Well when you tell me five or six times how butt ass ugly I look, it gets to me."
"So if I've upset you, why did you say 'no' before?" she asked, amused.
"Okay so I am." At that point, I took my purse and walked out "to the ladies room." In reality, I walked around the hotel. I had no car. I couldn't escape. I called a couple friends who obviously would not be free to chat on a Saturday night and thus did not pick up their phone. The one friend who did pick up the phone ended up getting cut off because my cell phone battery died. So now I was stranded with no phone. I kept walking around the hotel until I ventured upon an arcade.
Oooh, pinball. I'll play pinball, I thought to myself. I put a dollar into the change machine whereupon it produced four quarters. I dropped two quarters into the machine and pressed start.
Nothing. I pressed "start" again. And again. Nothing.
I then body slammed into the pinball machine. Nothing. And then I laughed. "This is actually pretty funny," I remarked to myself. I tell the Front Desk that they have a defective pinball machine.
"Ooh, sorry, we don't give refunds," a woman simpered to me.
"Fine, but maybe you should put a note on there that it's broken," I said.
"Ooh, okay, [insert patronizing remark]."
"K bye."
I needed a drink and my cousin still hadn't brought me my bottle of Jack at this point so I decided to go to the small hotel bar. As I walked towards it, I saw to my dismay that a middle-aged, 600-pound man was waving me to me enthusiastically. Maybe not, I thought to myself.
So I walked around a bit more, stopped by the real ladies' room where I powdered my face a bit. Then in one of the stalls I could hear that distinct honking noise of my mom blowing her nose. I kept powdering my nose and she came out, saw me, washed her hands and held the door open for me, whereupon we exited the ladies' room together. She was totally oblivious.
I ignored her for the next twenty minutes, just watching the kids get crazy on the dance floor. My cousin finally proffered the Jack Daniels which I gladly poured into a styrofoam cup and drank straight. Nothing like whiskey to numb a gal from her pain.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"You need to get married!"
"When are you going to get married?"
"It's so important to get married and have a family."
and best of all
"You're next!"
Interspersed between the twenty or so times various relatives felt the need to remind me that I am indeed without a boyfriend, that I am indeed single, and that I do indeed need to get married, was my mother, who looked at my face and told me how I've aged and there were a number of skin care professionals who could fix that. After she told me this five or six times, I remarked on the patch of hair growing out of her mole on her face and asked her if she was growing a mustache. Then I asked her if she was, in fact, a woman, if perhaps she were not really a man. She laughed at me and said, "Ooh, did I upset you?"
"No," I said.
"You're talking so fast. I can tell I upset you," she said to me, smiling.
I felt the tears rush to my eyes. My mom taking obvious pleasure in the fact that she got under my skin was the last straw.
"Well when you tell me five or six times how butt ass ugly I look, it gets to me."
"So if I've upset you, why did you say 'no' before?" she asked, amused.
"Okay so I am." At that point, I took my purse and walked out "to the ladies room." In reality, I walked around the hotel. I had no car. I couldn't escape. I called a couple friends who obviously would not be free to chat on a Saturday night and thus did not pick up their phone. The one friend who did pick up the phone ended up getting cut off because my cell phone battery died. So now I was stranded with no phone. I kept walking around the hotel until I ventured upon an arcade.
Oooh, pinball. I'll play pinball, I thought to myself. I put a dollar into the change machine whereupon it produced four quarters. I dropped two quarters into the machine and pressed start.
Nothing. I pressed "start" again. And again. Nothing.
I then body slammed into the pinball machine. Nothing. And then I laughed. "This is actually pretty funny," I remarked to myself. I tell the Front Desk that they have a defective pinball machine.
"Ooh, sorry, we don't give refunds," a woman simpered to me.
"Fine, but maybe you should put a note on there that it's broken," I said.
"Ooh, okay, [insert patronizing remark]."
"K bye."
I needed a drink and my cousin still hadn't brought me my bottle of Jack at this point so I decided to go to the small hotel bar. As I walked towards it, I saw to my dismay that a middle-aged, 600-pound man was waving me to me enthusiastically. Maybe not, I thought to myself.
So I walked around a bit more, stopped by the real ladies' room where I powdered my face a bit. Then in one of the stalls I could hear that distinct honking noise of my mom blowing her nose. I kept powdering my nose and she came out, saw me, washed her hands and held the door open for me, whereupon we exited the ladies' room together. She was totally oblivious.
I ignored her for the next twenty minutes, just watching the kids get crazy on the dance floor. My cousin finally proffered the Jack Daniels which I gladly poured into a styrofoam cup and drank straight. Nothing like whiskey to numb a gal from her pain.
Okay so I'm an idiot
Apparently I had all these comments to various postings on my blog from 2005 and uh...I didn't notice them til right now. Apologies to anyone who felt snubbed. Though I'm sure not too many of you were crying yourselves to sleep at night wondering, "Why, WHY didn't she publish my comment?!"
So I'm publishing virtually all of them. I used to get email notifications for comments but some setting got f-ed up, so I had no idea all this time. Duh.
So I'm publishing virtually all of them. I used to get email notifications for comments but some setting got f-ed up, so I had no idea all this time. Duh.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Ella Fitzgerald hits it dead on
I love this song. It's a classic for a reason.
Someone to watch over me
There’s a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, "seek and ye shall find"
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind
Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet
He’s the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret
I’d like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me
I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood
I know I could, always be good
To one who’ll watch over me
Although he may not be the man some
Girls think of as handsome
To my heart he carries the key
Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me
(bridge)
Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me
Someone to watch over me
Someone to watch over me
There’s a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, "seek and ye shall find"
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind
Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet
He’s the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret
I’d like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me
I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood
I know I could, always be good
To one who’ll watch over me
Although he may not be the man some
Girls think of as handsome
To my heart he carries the key
Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me
(bridge)
Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me
Someone to watch over me
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
A very cute guy
There is a guy. He is very cute. So cute, in fact, that it is enough to distract me from the dumb yuppie angst I've been experiencing lately.
Of course, looks aren't everything. He's nice. Charming. Intelligent. Witty. And the night I met him, when a girl was all over him--a pretty girl who was pretty much a guaranteed lay--he extricated himself from her and talked with me. Me, the girl who did not constitute an easy lay. Walked me home. Asked for my number. Called me within 48 hours. Which leads me to think, this just might be a guy who is not just looking for ass. (How sad it is that a guy who is just not looking for ass can actually be something of note.)
So for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. I have a date with him on Friday night.
Like I said, looks aren't everything. But I can't help but think that he is too cute. I mean, I'm not an abomination of nature (I'd like to think). But I ain't Angelina Jolie/Jessica Alba. So it's rare for me to be in a predicament where a guy is so cute it makes me wonder, What the heck does he see in me? Seriously, this guy could get any 23-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 36C-23-34 girl he wanted. Maybe I have the Asian thing going for me (yes, he's white), but there are tons other hotter Asian chicks. And I suppose I am not utterly devoid of a personality. Still, I just can't help but think ... he's out of my league.
But I should not go down that path of neuroses. I've seen him a total of two times (the night I met him and one lunch). Maybe he's a weirdo. Or a former nerd turned hottie. Who knows? All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. A very cute guy.
Of course, looks aren't everything. He's nice. Charming. Intelligent. Witty. And the night I met him, when a girl was all over him--a pretty girl who was pretty much a guaranteed lay--he extricated himself from her and talked with me. Me, the girl who did not constitute an easy lay. Walked me home. Asked for my number. Called me within 48 hours. Which leads me to think, this just might be a guy who is not just looking for ass. (How sad it is that a guy who is just not looking for ass can actually be something of note.)
So for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. I have a date with him on Friday night.
Like I said, looks aren't everything. But I can't help but think that he is too cute. I mean, I'm not an abomination of nature (I'd like to think). But I ain't Angelina Jolie/Jessica Alba. So it's rare for me to be in a predicament where a guy is so cute it makes me wonder, What the heck does he see in me? Seriously, this guy could get any 23-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 36C-23-34 girl he wanted. Maybe I have the Asian thing going for me (yes, he's white), but there are tons other hotter Asian chicks. And I suppose I am not utterly devoid of a personality. Still, I just can't help but think ... he's out of my league.
But I should not go down that path of neuroses. I've seen him a total of two times (the night I met him and one lunch). Maybe he's a weirdo. Or a former nerd turned hottie. Who knows? All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. A very cute guy.
Tuesday morning
This morning she stepped off the bus and started walking. Walking to work. The weather was unseasonably mild and windy. She felt the wind flip around her slightly blow-dried but still damp hair, and realized that it would be another bad hair day.
Nonetheless, she kept walking. And then it hit her. She was walking to work. Work. And suddenly she felt the work, the unfinished briefs, research and memos, weigh upon her chest.
I can do this, she thought to herself. I am not dumb. But even as she repeated the Stewart-Smalley-sayings to herself over and over again, she couldn’t help but doubt it all and feel an increasing sense of dread. Dread that whatever she handed to the partner would elicit yet another lecture on how inadequate her brief was. Dread that the work was not doable. Dread that she was, in fact, dumb.
I know I’m smart, I know it, she kept repeating to herself. She walked through the revolving doors and walked to her office’s elevator bank. An elevator light blinked and rang softly and the silver doors opened and invited the employed citizens of its building inside. She walked in, pressed the right floor and retreated to the corner of the elevator as people piled in.
The elevator hummed with each increasing floor and she closed her eyes. It was another morning. She could do it. She knew she could do it.
Nonetheless, she kept walking. And then it hit her. She was walking to work. Work. And suddenly she felt the work, the unfinished briefs, research and memos, weigh upon her chest.
I can do this, she thought to herself. I am not dumb. But even as she repeated the Stewart-Smalley-sayings to herself over and over again, she couldn’t help but doubt it all and feel an increasing sense of dread. Dread that whatever she handed to the partner would elicit yet another lecture on how inadequate her brief was. Dread that the work was not doable. Dread that she was, in fact, dumb.
I know I’m smart, I know it, she kept repeating to herself. She walked through the revolving doors and walked to her office’s elevator bank. An elevator light blinked and rang softly and the silver doors opened and invited the employed citizens of its building inside. She walked in, pressed the right floor and retreated to the corner of the elevator as people piled in.
The elevator hummed with each increasing floor and she closed her eyes. It was another morning. She could do it. She knew she could do it.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Fun boys
I know it's been a while. There are so many tales I want to spill onto this page, so many socially retarded guys I want to vilify (anonymously of course). But alas, time constraints exist. After hearing my latest dating debacle, my guy friend told me, "You know Yellow Gal, you should totally write a book. The title would be 'The Memoirs of Yellow Gal' where you could write about all the freak guys you meet."
Never mind the face biter/exfoliator, the 23-year-old who thought it was acceptable to blow off dinner with me to play his online poker game, or the 37-year-old who talked about his dog's case of the runs during lunch on our first date. The latest catch is a 29-year-old guy who:
a) "complimented" me by telling me that he unchivalrously requested that I take an hour-long train ride to see him to test whether or not I really liked him;
b) tried to have sex with me on the second date,
c) got irritated when I refused;
d) subsequently whined about his "blue balls"; and
e) on our 3rd date, brought his friend along and ignored me the whole time by making me sit in the back seat while they bantered, essentially making me feel like the third wheel.
I had a talk with him and he apologized for the above acts and attempted, pathetically and unsuccessfully, to justify himself to me. The boy is charming, but all the charm in the world couldn't conceal the fact that he was utterly bereft of any chivalry or decency.
Mr. Right is out there. He's elusive, he's a rarity, but he's there. I have to believe he is.
Otherwise, at least I can live off the royalties of my memoirs.
Never mind the face biter/exfoliator, the 23-year-old who thought it was acceptable to blow off dinner with me to play his online poker game, or the 37-year-old who talked about his dog's case of the runs during lunch on our first date. The latest catch is a 29-year-old guy who:
a) "complimented" me by telling me that he unchivalrously requested that I take an hour-long train ride to see him to test whether or not I really liked him;
b) tried to have sex with me on the second date,
c) got irritated when I refused;
d) subsequently whined about his "blue balls"; and
e) on our 3rd date, brought his friend along and ignored me the whole time by making me sit in the back seat while they bantered, essentially making me feel like the third wheel.
I had a talk with him and he apologized for the above acts and attempted, pathetically and unsuccessfully, to justify himself to me. The boy is charming, but all the charm in the world couldn't conceal the fact that he was utterly bereft of any chivalry or decency.
Mr. Right is out there. He's elusive, he's a rarity, but he's there. I have to believe he is.
Otherwise, at least I can live off the royalties of my memoirs.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
The truth will set us free. From guys.
I am a girl who used to be called ugly. It should therefore be of no surprise that I am always a little flattered and perhaps (pathetically) a bit grateful whenever a guy shows any interest in me. Yes, some guys have low standards (Pulse? Check. Two legs? Check.) Still, I cannot help but feel bad when a guy likes me, I go on a few dates with him, we may kiss once or twice, and I realize that it's just not going to happen. A tiny part of me, the ugly 13-year-old girl inside of me, says I should be thankful that any guy could ever like me--who the hell am I to think I'm too good for certain guys?
But I know, I know, that being upfront and honest is the way to go. Then one must utter some variation of the wretched words, "I think we should just be friends." And I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. It's funny. Women can endure 10 hours of excruciating pain wearing that perfect pair of shoes and push watermelons out of our vaginas; but sometimes telling a guy "I'm not interested in you" can be the hardest thing.
Of course, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, especially given my numerous rants on the Island of Lost Men. I bitch about guys who disappear on us, yet I myself face the same anxiety when having to confront a guy to tell him I don't like him in that way. I will say, in my defense, that I have never dated a guy for X months and then "broke up" by simply disappearing on him.
Some girls have supported the view that after 1 or 2 dates, a gal need not call the guy back at all if she isn't interested. After a few more dates however, the Talk is necessary.
The reason I'm blabbering about this is because I have to have the Talk with a guy tonight. I've been on a few dates with a genuinely nice guy, but it's just not working. I'm actually rehearsing the Talk in my head. For all I know, he might respond, "Don't flatter yourself. I was thinking the same thing." Whatever the case may be, it's better in the long-run to clarify feelings point blank than let things linger and string the guy along.
Yet, as always, easier blogged than done.
But I know, I know, that being upfront and honest is the way to go. Then one must utter some variation of the wretched words, "I think we should just be friends." And I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. It's funny. Women can endure 10 hours of excruciating pain wearing that perfect pair of shoes and push watermelons out of our vaginas; but sometimes telling a guy "I'm not interested in you" can be the hardest thing.
Of course, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, especially given my numerous rants on the Island of Lost Men. I bitch about guys who disappear on us, yet I myself face the same anxiety when having to confront a guy to tell him I don't like him in that way. I will say, in my defense, that I have never dated a guy for X months and then "broke up" by simply disappearing on him.
Some girls have supported the view that after 1 or 2 dates, a gal need not call the guy back at all if she isn't interested. After a few more dates however, the Talk is necessary.
The reason I'm blabbering about this is because I have to have the Talk with a guy tonight. I've been on a few dates with a genuinely nice guy, but it's just not working. I'm actually rehearsing the Talk in my head. For all I know, he might respond, "Don't flatter yourself. I was thinking the same thing." Whatever the case may be, it's better in the long-run to clarify feelings point blank than let things linger and string the guy along.
Yet, as always, easier blogged than done.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Break
It's 10:55 PM on a Wednesday night, and I sit in my office, in front of my computer, envying all you people who sit at home, comfortably lie on your couches, and flip through your TV channels or pages of a filthy magazine. It must be nice.
I haven't eaten yet, and so food beckons. My L'Oreal Caramel Creme lip gloss is looking tasty right now.
But work beckons. So must return. To. Work.
Yay.
I haven't eaten yet, and so food beckons. My L'Oreal Caramel Creme lip gloss is looking tasty right now.
But work beckons. So must return. To. Work.
Yay.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Don't think, just live
Most of the time, I feel normal. I wake up, I shower, I get dressed, I go to work. I commute on the bus. I say "thank you" to the bus driver when I get off the bus. I walk a couple blocks to my office and enjoy the noise of the city for those couple blocks. I press the button in the elevator, say "good morning" to the receptionist, walk to my office that has a tiny bamboo plant in the corner, and read and write and talk for several hours. I go home. I eat. I talk to friends. I make plans for the weekend. I gossip. I fret over boys or work. It is all a very normal life. At least I pretend it is.
Every once in a while, I feel very abnormal. Like there's something that's very very wrong in my life. I can't really describe what it is. I have food and water to survive. I have friends and a job. Shouldn't that be enough for me to feel normal? It's almost as if I feel uncomfortable in my skin, or rather, suffocated in my skin. There's really no other way to describe it. But I can't really get out of my skin, because, first, that would be gross, and second, where would I go? I just feel like there are so many confusing unstable things going on outside my skin and inside my skin simultaneously. Everything is uncertain, unstable, and random; and it all (every once in a while) feels very very wrong.
Every once in a while, I wish I could be a moron. Okay not seriously. But I wonder, how much happier would I be if the dumbest things like eating, farting, and fucking were enough to make me happy? I would never question anything. Life would be very simple. And I'd be happy with my Big Mac and fries and Ricki Lake.
But instead, I think about things. And for some bizarre unknown reason, at this particular moment on a Monday evening, I feel very alienated, from what or whom, I don't know. I just feel very out of place. And this does not feel normal.
Every once in a while, I feel very abnormal. Like there's something that's very very wrong in my life. I can't really describe what it is. I have food and water to survive. I have friends and a job. Shouldn't that be enough for me to feel normal? It's almost as if I feel uncomfortable in my skin, or rather, suffocated in my skin. There's really no other way to describe it. But I can't really get out of my skin, because, first, that would be gross, and second, where would I go? I just feel like there are so many confusing unstable things going on outside my skin and inside my skin simultaneously. Everything is uncertain, unstable, and random; and it all (every once in a while) feels very very wrong.
Every once in a while, I wish I could be a moron. Okay not seriously. But I wonder, how much happier would I be if the dumbest things like eating, farting, and fucking were enough to make me happy? I would never question anything. Life would be very simple. And I'd be happy with my Big Mac and fries and Ricki Lake.
But instead, I think about things. And for some bizarre unknown reason, at this particular moment on a Monday evening, I feel very alienated, from what or whom, I don't know. I just feel very out of place. And this does not feel normal.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Ugh 2
The home phone rang on a Friday evening. After five rings, the call went to the answering machine. "Hi, please leave a message at the tone," the machine said.
After the beep, a voice started speaking.
"Hey there girl, it's me, Dental Technician. Yeah it's about 6:30 now, I'm just getting off work. Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner downtown. Give me a call when you get a chance. Buh-bye." Immediately after the message was recorded, it was deleted.
The home address listed in the records which Dental Technician was undoubtedly holding in his hands showed that the apartment was not downtown. Did Dental Technician think that his undeniable suave warranted a trip downtown?
For some reason, the combination of events the past two days was a turn off. Dental Technician requested a date while holding a metal hook near the gumline. The next day, he called the work number, was denied dinner, and was further told that he would be called back. (Not that there was a number to be called back at, except, of course, the dentist's office.) He called the very next day, at the home number listed in the dental records, to request dinner again on an answering machine.
Friends were consulted and all agreed that it wasn't totally bitchy to screen his calls and not call him back. The alternative would be to take one of his calls and say "Hi, yeah, I'm not interested in you at all. I only said yes because you were holding a deadly weapon near my gums when you asked me on a date and I didn't want to be sliced up. Take care now, buh-bye."
It is supremely hoped that he will get the hint. Otherwise, it would be quite awkward to have that I-said-yes-so-you-would-spare-my-gums talk.
After the beep, a voice started speaking.
"Hey there girl, it's me, Dental Technician. Yeah it's about 6:30 now, I'm just getting off work. Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner downtown. Give me a call when you get a chance. Buh-bye." Immediately after the message was recorded, it was deleted.
The home address listed in the records which Dental Technician was undoubtedly holding in his hands showed that the apartment was not downtown. Did Dental Technician think that his undeniable suave warranted a trip downtown?
For some reason, the combination of events the past two days was a turn off. Dental Technician requested a date while holding a metal hook near the gumline. The next day, he called the work number, was denied dinner, and was further told that he would be called back. (Not that there was a number to be called back at, except, of course, the dentist's office.) He called the very next day, at the home number listed in the dental records, to request dinner again on an answering machine.
Friends were consulted and all agreed that it wasn't totally bitchy to screen his calls and not call him back. The alternative would be to take one of his calls and say "Hi, yeah, I'm not interested in you at all. I only said yes because you were holding a deadly weapon near my gums when you asked me on a date and I didn't want to be sliced up. Take care now, buh-bye."
It is supremely hoped that he will get the hint. Otherwise, it would be quite awkward to have that I-said-yes-so-you-would-spare-my-gums talk.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Ugh
The dental technician called at work. He was told that he would be called back later (despite him never giving his phone number). The conversation ended with him cooing, "I'll talk to you later then ... pretty lady." This farewell induced a series of shuddering, cringing, and shriveling of innards.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Sucks
A twenty-something-year-old yellow gal was lying on her dentist's chair. Her mouth was agape. A dental technician was examining the inside of her mouth. They made pleasant conversation with whatever words she could sputter between his probing latex fingers. It was her second trip to the dentist this month due to a suspicious molar which the X-rays revealed just happened to be oddly shaped beneath the gum line. They joked about the city's horrible football team, the nippy weather, the half-crazed patients that he encountered, and the like.
As she lay there, nodding and gurgling responses to his questions, the dental technician paused for a second and asked, "Can I ask you a question?"
You just did, she resisted saying. "Uh huh," she gurgled.
"Do you want to get together some time?" he asked, peering over her. The metal device he held in his hand paused on her upper incisor.
"Uhh," she gurgled, feeling the cool metal rest close to the gum line. Now would not be the time to piss him off, she thought. "Uh kay" she said.
"Cool," he said. He continued probing.
Shit, she thought. She hadn't time to think of an excuse. As he carefully rinsed out her mouth and gave her a complimentary bundle of dental floss, toothpaste and an electric toothbrush, she cursed herself for saying "Uh kay." But then she thought about it. What the heck could she have said? If she rejected him, who knows what could have ensued? Would he have "accidentally" scrapped off her upper face? Hath Hell fury like a dental technician scorned? And isn't it a breach of some kind of dental technician-patient relationship to ask a patient on a date, especially if some metal device that bears an uncanny resemblance to a meat hook is poised over the patient's exposed, vulnerable gums? What could a gal do? What should have the gal done?
She mused over this predicament. He had her phone number. They were in the office records. Crap, she thought, CRAP. As he handed her the dental goods, he smiled at her and said "I'll call you."
"Ha ha," she fake-laughed, "Okay, bye."
Why is the fear of being a bitch always forcing her to be unnecessarily nice to guys? Then again, she was in a vulnerable position.
"I was under duress!" she exclaimed to her girlfriend.
"I can't believe you said yes when you didn't want to," her friend replied.
"He had a deadly weapon hovering over my face. What was I to do?"
"Point taken," her friend said. The friend sipped her tea, paused over it for a moment and said, "Sucks."
"Yeah," the gal said. "Sucks."
As she lay there, nodding and gurgling responses to his questions, the dental technician paused for a second and asked, "Can I ask you a question?"
You just did, she resisted saying. "Uh huh," she gurgled.
"Do you want to get together some time?" he asked, peering over her. The metal device he held in his hand paused on her upper incisor.
"Uhh," she gurgled, feeling the cool metal rest close to the gum line. Now would not be the time to piss him off, she thought. "Uh kay" she said.
"Cool," he said. He continued probing.
Shit, she thought. She hadn't time to think of an excuse. As he carefully rinsed out her mouth and gave her a complimentary bundle of dental floss, toothpaste and an electric toothbrush, she cursed herself for saying "Uh kay." But then she thought about it. What the heck could she have said? If she rejected him, who knows what could have ensued? Would he have "accidentally" scrapped off her upper face? Hath Hell fury like a dental technician scorned? And isn't it a breach of some kind of dental technician-patient relationship to ask a patient on a date, especially if some metal device that bears an uncanny resemblance to a meat hook is poised over the patient's exposed, vulnerable gums? What could a gal do? What should have the gal done?
She mused over this predicament. He had her phone number. They were in the office records. Crap, she thought, CRAP. As he handed her the dental goods, he smiled at her and said "I'll call you."
"Ha ha," she fake-laughed, "Okay, bye."
Why is the fear of being a bitch always forcing her to be unnecessarily nice to guys? Then again, she was in a vulnerable position.
"I was under duress!" she exclaimed to her girlfriend.
"I can't believe you said yes when you didn't want to," her friend replied.
"He had a deadly weapon hovering over my face. What was I to do?"
"Point taken," her friend said. The friend sipped her tea, paused over it for a moment and said, "Sucks."
"Yeah," the gal said. "Sucks."
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