The dreaded Zone

I'm in a bit of a predicament. It's about this guy. (It always is, isn't it?) I've known him for about two years now. We've bumped into each other at various professional events, chit chatted and nothing more. I never really thought much of him other than an easy-going, funny guy. In the last few months, I started to get the feeling he might be interested in me. I hung out with him in a group once and my girlfriend who was there confirmed she thought he liked me. Later that week he emailed me and asked me to hang out. Just us.

I wasn't interested in him in that way. He was fun to chat with, but he's not...shall we say...traditionally handsome. One of my girlfriends rated him, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being butt ugly, 5 being average and 10 being perfect, a "2." Another girlfriend bluntly said he didn't even make the scale. So, needless to say, he ain't Brad Pitt.

Anyhow, I had to make it clear to him he was in the Friends Zone, that dreaded category of guys who are really sweet and sensitive but whom the girl will never sleep with. So when he asked me to hang out after work, I suggested lunch instead. When he called me later and left a voicemail saying he just wanted to see how I was doing, I never returned his call. YES it was rude but I believed it was necessary to demarcate the boundaries of the Zone. Afterwards, I never affirmatively contacted him; it was always he contacting me.

So that was that. Friends Zone boundaries have been clearly marked. Everything is hunky dory now, right?

Right?

Last Thursday, he emailed me asking me to go to an outdoor art fair on Sunday. I had plans with a girlfriend Sunday evening, so I replied that I'd run it by my friend and maybe we'd stop by (again, reiterating the Friends Zone by bringing along a friend).

Later that same day, I was having an after work drink with my girlfriend (the one who said the guy didn't even make the scale), and we were talking about boys. As I sipped my vodka cranberry, I began to muse over the various guys I've met and dated this past year. Then I thought about the Friends Zone guy. "You know," I said, "if he were just a little bit cuter, I might actually like him. You know?"

She looked at me warily. "Uh huh..." she nodded slowly while stirring her drink with her black stirrer.

I took another sip and thought about it more. "I mean, he's funny, smart, laid-back," I added. "He's pretty cool."

She continued to look at me warily. "I think," I said hesitantly, "I think...on some level...I...actually...might--" her head strained forward at this point "--you know. On some level."

She put her glass down. "Wow," she said, staring at me. "For you to overlook completely someone's physical appearance and like someone solely based on personality -- that shows what a good person you are." She lifted her glass again. "Wow," she repeated.

I couldn't help but laugh. It was supposed to be a compliment, but it showed how hideous she thought this guy was.

Afterwards, as I sat on the train home, I thought about him. And then it hit me. (Like a train, no less.) Maybe I did like him. What was holding me back? There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, I always felt really comfortable around him, good, even. And he made me laugh.

No no no no, I thought to myself, it's the vodka talking. You'll wake up and this'll be just a drunk thought.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thought I had was of him. Not just a thought, but a dreamy giddy happy thought. Crap! I thought to myself, I do f-ing like him! What now?!This never happened to me, a guy friend "growing" on me. Well, okay once. My last boyfriend.

I went to work, still startled by my recent epiphany. My girlfriend emailed me saying she would pass on the art exhibit "but have fun!" So I emailed the guy and said I'd go.

Sunday arrived. And it came time to decide what I was going to wear. T shirt and jeans? Tank top and capris? Or cute strapless summer dress that brushed against my thighs? Hmm. I realized I must have liked him because I went with choice C.

We met at the art fair entrance and he came armed with a couple of small bottles of red wine. "BYOB," he said to me as he tapped the cloth bag holding the Cabernet. "Cool," I said. How did he know I liked red wine better than white wine?

We walked amongst the paintings, sketches, abstract sculptures and jewelry, musing over whether or not we could replicate the art ourselves.

"I could totally do that," he said to a pile of dirt on the floor. He looked at the price tag. "And for $900 a pile, that ain't too bad."

"But you don't get it," I said. "The 'latent earth' is arranged in a certain way. There's an energy to its randomness."

He looked at me. "Yellow Gal, it's a pile of dirt on the floor."

I laughed. "You have no vision," I insisted.

"Dirt is dirt. Now that is art," he said pointing to a Monet-esque landscape.

"Fine," I relented.

We walked for a bit more and then sat down at a park bench to sip on our little wine bottles. He pulled out a container of Cheez-It crackers. "Instead of cheese and crackers, I brought cheese crackers," he explained with a nod. I couldn't help but laugh.

"Drinking wine from a bottle on a bench, very classy," I said as I unscrewed the cap of my wine bottle.

"Yeah, the only things we need are some newspapers and a shopping cart full of garbage bags."

"Mocking the poor, I like it," I nodded. "Cheers," I said, holding up my bottle. "Cheers," he responded, and we clinked our bottles.

I had an amazing time with him. We cracked each other up over the most random stuff. And I discovered we had a few more things in common. I felt so much more attracted to him. Crap, I thought to myself, now I really really like him.

As the day waned and the artists began packing up their exhibits, he turned to me and asked, "Are you hungry? I could go for some Yellow food."

I gasped. Not only did he know my preference for red wine over white, but he also tapped into my ultimate weakness: Yellow food. My own comfort food. And while he wasn't exactly my shade of Yellow, I knew he wasn't just fronting like he liked it, because he started rattling off specific dishes that only a true fan of the cuisine could know. I was impressed. And even more enamored.

"I so wish I could, but I'm meeting up with my girlfriend for dinner," I said, truly disappointed.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to Yellow Town anyway."

"But she lives right around there, maybe I'll go with you for a bit before I meet her?"

"Oh-kay," he said. Yes, I was making it pretty obvious that I wanted to hang out with him more.

So we took the train to Yellow Town and as we walked towards our particular restaurant destination, we saw a long line.

"Argh, there's a line." I looked at my watch. "I have to meet her in an hour, so I guess I'll just start walking to her place."

"Okay," he said. Then he walked alongside me in that direction.

"Oh, are you walking me?" I asked. "It's a bit away."

"Only until I see another place for food."

He ended up walking me to her place. Two miles. He stopped at her apartment lobby and looked at me. "This was cool," he said.

"Yeah," I said smiling stupidly. I had no idea what the F to do. I suddenly felt like a moron.

"Okay, see ya," he waved.

"Oh, okay, bye," I responded and waved.

And that was that.

Now I feel totally clueless. If this were purely a dating situation, I'd wait to hear from him. But I had previously demarcated the Friends Zone. How to un-demarcate short of wearing a sign that says "Do me"? What if he's lost interest? My friends defined the art fair outing as a date. It certainly felt like one. But was it?

It's so funny. Before when I talked to him, I was so lackadaisical. And now that I actually like him, I'm completely anxious, and I'm scouring my flimsy repertoire of dating knowledge to figure out what to do next.

Why did it take me this long to realize that I liked him? Did I like him all along or did it just hit me when I put it together that one night?

Who knows. I just hope I didn't F this one up.

Predicted M.O. of this guy I met this past weekend

John thought he was pretty smooth. Not just smooth. But pretty smooth.

John did not have a black book, but a BlackBerry. In it were many names, ranging from A (Ana, the Latina goddess he met at a club) to Z (Zoey, the feisty bohemian he met at a political rally).

When he texted a cutesy message like "Good morning :-)" or "How you doing, cutie?" none of the female recipients had any idea that the message was simply a mass text to a group list entitled "TL," which meant "The Ladies." A flurry of responses came in a row, ranging from the innocuous "G'morning hun ;)" to "Fuck me if I'm wrong, but it's Tuesday, right?"

It was Friday.

He laughed to himself as he scrolled through the TL responses. Of course he got away with it. Girls were so easy to manipulate. They almost want to be lied to, especially by men like him who were tall, blonde and athletic. Inevitably, after week 2, each of the girls would ask the same question: "Are you dating other girls?"

"No," he'd lie with a wry smile. "You're the only girl for me." And he could discern the relief in their voices as they weakly smiled, "Oh, okay."

Women were so stupid. Even the intelligent ones were stupid. John didn't like to mess with the lipsticked ditzes. Those were "SL." "Starter Ladies" for his earlier days in college. As he got older, he needed a challenge. And so after business school, he delved into the yuppie pool of bankers, lawyers, consultants, and the like.

He soon learned that they were strikingly similar to the gorgeous trashy girls he banged in college. All girls had the same insecurities, no matter how many many degrees or titles they had to their name. They all wanted to be told they were beautiful. They all wanted to be special. They all wanted him.

He almost felt sorry for them all, especially after having sex with them ("making love" is what some of these girls called it -- did people still use that phrase?). But not enough to stop. After all, this was pretty fun. And he always got away with it. Always.

Yep, he was pretty smooth. Not just smooth. But pretty smooth.

Ick

So I just saw the 2007 version of "Hairspray," the musical movie. I couldn't help but think the teeny bopper heartthrob, Link Larkin (played by Zac Efron), was so cute. Like, really really cute.

Then I googled him and learned that he was born in 1987.

1987!

I suddenly felt like a pedophile, longing for and looking up internet pictures of a boy who's 19 years old.

Ick.

August blues

So I want a vacation. This is how I envision my conversation with my boss(es) will be:

"I want a vacation."

"Sorry, we have 983 things going on for the next ten months. So that's a no-go."

"If I don't take a vacation soon, I will have a breakdown and subsequently commit suicide."

"Sorry, we don't really have time to accommodate your 'idiosyncrasies.' "

"I will cite you and this job as the reasons for my suicide in my suicide note."

"Make sure you proofread for typos. Remember that last brief you wrote? Tsk tsk."

"As long as you can come to my funeral."

"We'll see if it conflicts with anything on our calendars."

_______________

Seriously. I think it might go like that.

I'm so depressed.

A break

I think I need a break. Everything is starting to get to me. Everyone is starting to annoy me. The city is beginning to grate on my nerves, and I think I've just been in a city environment for way too long.

I need to go somewhere where firetrucks, ambulances and police car sirens aren't blaring every other hour, at 3 am, 5 am, 7 am, and so on. Where people aren't walking too slowly when you need to get somewhere in five minutes. Where cars don't honk their horns at you and drivers don't yell "fuck you" when you have the right of way. Where plans with people, checklists at work, piles of laundry, unanswered emails, and unreturned phone calls don't continuously weigh upon you with each passing second.

I want to drop everything and go away. A lightly-sanded beach with aqua water with nobody except a personal bartender/masseur at my beck and call. I want to breathe in air that smells like the sea, free of car exhaust and horse shit and stale Marlboro Lights. I want to exhale and feel light and unburdened and free.

I need a break. Or else I'll break.

"There's someone I want to you to meet."

Words that every single girl will inevitably hear. Words that every single girl will inevitably loathe. I was having lunch with Shannon, a former co-worker, when she uttered these words to me.

"Oh really?" I asked.

"His name's Nick. He's fun and smart and cool," she gushed. "I hung out with him in a group a couple weeks ago. I think you'll really like him."

My receptiveness to meeting someone depends on the purveyor of the words. Shannon was cool, a little bit on the alternative bohemian side. She typically dyed her hair a different color every six months. Today, her hair was strawberry blonde, and she wore a floral dress with black combat boots. On anyone else, the get-up would make the wearer look like she was trying too hard. On Shannon, it worked.

While Shannon knew me for only a year, I suspected she knew me well enough to not introduce me to some random lame-o off the street. So with her stamp of approval, I said, sure, why not, let's all hang out in a group and see what happens.

Shannon set up an "after-work thing" where we'd all meet up. I knew she was also inviting her other girlfriend, Pam, another strawberry blonde (but natural), whom I had seen on Shannon's myspace page and heard about through Shannon.

I met up with Shannon at her office, and we walked together to the bar where Pam and Nick were. I saw Pam who smiled, and I returned her smile. Then I saw Nick. And suddenly, I became embarrassed.

Nick was Asian. "Oriental." And not only that, but he was very fobby. I looked at his "Members Only" jacket and ribbed tank top underneath. And perhaps I could have forgiven his fashionlessness if it weren't for that thing growing out of his neck. His head.

Nick bore an uncanny resemblance to Random Task, the Korean villain, on Austin Powers.

I was so embarrassed. So. Embarrassed.

Shannon beamed as she introduced me to Nick, looking at me, then to him, then to me. I sat down, swallowing my mortification, and smiled and ordered a martini. As I sipped my drink, I totally hit it off with Pam, who cracked me up with her scathing wit. With Nick though, it was different. I couldn't communicate with him. Literally.

His words were coated with a thick accent. He had to repeat his jokes three to four times before I could first decipher what he was saying and then decipher why the joke was remotely funny. He also snorted when he laughed and had a serious dandruff problem.

So embarrassing.

Did Shannon think that just because we were both Asian we would automatically hit it off? That because he was remotely nice and not a complete moron and we had a "common background" we were automatic soulmates?

Sensing my revulsion, Shannon attempted to do some damage control. During one of Nick's bathroom breaks, she leaned over to me and said, "Oh, I hope you don't think I was trying to set you up! He's a really nice guy."

I feigned a smile. "Oh, of course." I let her off on a technicality. She never explicitly said, "I'm setting you up with this guy for romantic purposes only." She just said there was someone she wanted me to meet. That's all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The night ended without incident. As we bid our farewells, Nick shook my hand and said, "Nice meeting you."

I looked at Shannon and then back at Nick. Through a gritted smile, I replied, "Nice meeting you too."

3 thoughts of the day

1. Philosophical thought of the day

I just began reading the book, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," by Milan Kundera, a souvenir from a brief relationship with a guy several years ago. Actually, he lent it to me because it was his favorite book and I've since stowed it in my modest book collection and haven't returned it since. Oops.

One passage I liked:

Was it better to be with Tereza or to remain alone?

There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself.

My less than sophisticated reaction to this passage: "Totally!" All of us don't know what the f we're doing. Every time we do something or make a choice, we don't know for sure how it'll turn out until we do it. And when we do it and the consequences ensue, it's not like we can say "Okay that was an enlightening test run. Note to self: Do not marry a guy after knowing him for less than 2 days and hand over your bank account information. Let's relive that portion of my life!" I guess they're right when they say "Life is not a dress rehearsal."

2. Unsaintly thought of the day

I was watching tv while slurping on warm udon noodles. A Levitra commercial came on. A bunch of forty-to-sixty-something-year old men wearing flannel shirts or polos talked about their ED and how you should talk to your doctor about Levitra. Then at the end of the commercial, the voiceover did its usual "Symptoms include..." spiel. Then the voiceover said, "If your erection lasts more than four hours, call a doctor." I dropped my chopsticks and the wet noodles plopped into their stew.

If your erection lasts more than four hours, call me.

3. Dumbass thought of the day

Or rather, non-thought. I got into the elevator today and pressed "31." As the doors were closing, a tall man slipped in through the doors and pressed "33." He seemed to be mesmerized by his Blackberry. I took the opportunity to blatantly check him out as he scrolled through his Blackberry intently. He donned a dark pinstriped suit that smoothed neatly over his lean build, and had wavy brown hair and a sharp jawline.

I was still staring at him when the elevator doors opened and dinged. He looked up and said, "That's your floor."

"What?" I said, excited he was talking to me.

"Your floor. 31," he said, gesturing with his Blackberry towards the hallway.

"Oh, right, right," I said, gathering myself. "I was distracted by the news," I explained, tilting my head towards the little screen above the buttons, bearing today's weather and headlines. He looked back at his Blackberry. I exited the elevator.

"I am such a loser," I thought to myself as I ambled towards my office.
____________

And that's it for today. A book, a commercial and an elevator ride. Who knows what crazy adventures face Yellow Gal tomorrow! Stay tuned.

The End #823,046,683

I ended things with the shy guy recently. In fact, I barely had to say anything. He just guessed what I was about to say. When I confirmed his suspicion, he did something unprecedented: He was totally classy.

I have this unfair stereotype of guys as having very fragile egos, no matter how much money they make, how many girls they sleep with, whatever. Their egos are particularly vulnerable when it comes to women. And so, the guys I have come to know and regret -- upon the demise of something -- usually bristle, lash out, and act like babies with responses such as "My friends didn't like you anyway," "Whatever, I was going to dump you yesterday but I was busy getting all these other girls' numbers," and the like.

The shy guy however did not take that route. He told me he thought I was a 'wonderful person,' said he wished we could have lasted longer, and wished me the best. He also said he enjoyed the time we did spend together and has no regrets.

And it didn't feel like he was just giving lip service. I think he meant it. How refreshing it is to end something with a guy on good terms with respect. And how sad it is that he probably represents 0.0000000000001% of the single male population. If only all break-ups could end this well.

Oh, Age

Age is not just a number.

Age is in direct proportion to the number of times a store clerk or cashier will call you Ma'am instead of Miss.

Age is in inverse proportion to the number of times you get carded at a bar, restaurant or club.

Age is in direct proportion to the number of people who will give up their handicapped-only seats for you on the bus.

...

Age however has no correlation with how much a gal knows about boys and dealings with boys.

Thanks for nothing, Age.

Supersize me

My yellow pal and I were at a club. My yellow pal and I were drunk. My yellow pal made me pinky swear that, after she lost 15 pounds, she and I would both get body art done the next time we were in Vegas, and go out clubbing in our body art.

Body art can take many forms. The form my pal was specifically referring to was the kind where you get topless and some dude paints some flowers or something on your top (i.e. your boobs) so you are artfully "covered." But in reality you are topless. Topless with flowers painted on your boobs with some vines and leaves on your shoulders and arms. Example of a chick in a "shirt":


That alone is pretty crazy for me. But there's more.

The next time we are in Vegas is for the Annual National Asian Pacific American Bar Association Convention. In other words, a bunch of Asian American lawyers from all over the country will convene in the City of Sin to take seminars and network with other Asian American lawyers.

My friend (also a lawyer) wants us to go clubbing in Vegas (undoubtedly where some of these lawyers will be), topless with body art on our boobs.

As my buzz wore off, I started thinking. "Uh, you want to go topless in front of other lawyers?" I asked.

"What, it's art!" she responded. I immediately thought of how a "Hustler Magazine" photographer would similarly argue regarding a picture of a naked 21-year-old cheerleader spread eagle. "It'll be fun!" she added, swaying.

"Yeah, but I don't want the general counsel of General Electric or a federal judge to see lilies on my breasts. Don't you think that vision would affect their perception of us as professionals? That instead of taking us seriously as intelligent, serious attorneys, they'd see us as skanks with lilies painted on their nipples?"

"No, why would they?" she asked. "We're out clubbing. Just having fun. It's Vegas."

I really didn't know what else to say. Seeing that I was less than persuaded, she added, "You pinky swore! So now you have to do it!"

Crap, I thought to myself. The only thing I could think of was hope that she was so drunk that she'd forget our pinky swear. Or hope that she'd let me reneg on our pinky swear in light of the don't-want-to-jeopardize-my-legal-career argument. Or hope that she'd believe me when I say I found this diet that emphasized a hamburger-and-fries-based regiment.

God help me if I ever become this psycho

A friend just forwarded me the below exchanges of email. So funny. And so sad.

---

Friends, Some of you may remember by ex-girlfriend Sarah. I recently received a letter from her. I would appreciate it if you would take the time to read it and review my response. I hope all of you are well.

>>>May 23, 2005

Dear Davey:

I have had a difficult time, over the past few years, achieving closure of our relationship. It is time for me to seek this. I have gone through the appropriate stages of anger, remorse, sadness. It is now time for me to close this chapter of my life. I am trying to recapture my life and gain a sense of identity back.

In my professional life I have done this, but my personal life struggles. For so long I/We were "Sarah and Davey", that it is hard to gain my own identity back. I am not worried about my career; I will soon succeed even my wildest dreams. I am just stunted by my personal life.

I am ready to release you from my life. I also on a weekly basis encounter people who want to tell me about you or have a discussion about you. I do not want to deal with this anymore. I do have a proposal on how to handle this.

I am ready to no longer be forced to deal with your presence. As to how to deal with it, I propose the following:

1. I've heard you have an apartment on the West side. You need to move out of the West side of Indianapolis, this has always been my side of town, I own a house here, and do not rent like you. I grew up here, and always want to live here. I would prefer if you were to leave Indianapolis all together, but I know this is more than I can ask.I do not want to risk running into you at any store.

2. We should officially divide our friends. Particularly Jim, Jillian, Amy, and Ed. You should write them, thanking them for the opportunity to be their friend and explain why you can no longer be in contact with them. I can provide you with addresses, if you need.

3. I will stay out of Republican politics. I promise not to get involved with any Republican politics, unless my father runs for judge, and than I reserve the right to work on his campaign.

4. I would like you to not have anything to do with all things Cathedral. I feel I should have ownership of the school since my mother works there and my brother and sisters went there. You are more tied to Wabash. This should be where you dedicate your alumni status. I will be involved in Cathedral. When the time of reunions comes up, I am willing to say that you can have the reunions ending in "0" years and I will take the"5" years. So you can have 10 years and I will take25 years.

5. I will avoid Wabash contacts. The few guys from the house I still speak to on a rare basis, I will not. I will also discourage any male offspring I have from attending Wabash.

I know some of these things seem a bit harsh, but I feel they are for the best. I do not ever really wish to see you again. I know that this will of course happen beyond my control, but I think we should do our best to avoid what we can.

It is my sincere hope that you understand, and do take the time to respond. This is my last request of you.

With fondness,

Sarah

_______________
>>>May 31, 2005

Dear Sarah,

Thanks for your letter. We broke up 3 years ago. Knowing that and taking into consideration you believe me to be a cold, career focused, ego-maniac, what on earth makes you think I would take the time to think about you or agree to your proposal? But since I clearly have taken the time to respond, please take a moment to review some comments and counterproposals I have crafted.

1. First, I will have to resist the burning urge to move RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO YOU. After that deep desire subsides, I will vacate the Westside and return to my roots: The Snooty Northside, as you used to call it. However, since I was born on the Northside and I have Northside in my veins you must abdicate all ties to the North. This includes: Living on the Northside, living on the Northeastside, walking down North Street, being a fan of the Dallas Stars (formerly the Minnesota North Stars), wearing North Face apparel or telling your children that Santa lives at the North Pole.

1 (B). I was born in Indianapolis before you were so I should really get to determine who stays and who goes. In my benevolence I will let you exist here only within the St. Michael's Parish boundary (MLK Dr. to High School Rd. and 56th Street to 10th St.) We will call this the SarahZone. This should be acceptable for you as your family lives across the street and there is a gas station, grocery, convenience store, your place of employment and a fire station. Exceptions can be made with my expressed written consent. You will be required to display a large tag in your windshield giving you permission to travel beyond the SarahZone.

2. I haven't talked to your friends since we broke up. I think they got the message. However since we apparently are still in fourth grade, please have your friends meet me by the playground at recess so that I can tell them they have big fat heads and they aren't my friends anymore.

Do you agree? _______Yes ________No________Maybe

2 (B). One of the few times you let us do something fun, we visited some of my family friends on Geist. It was about eight years ago. We enjoyed their boat and home for several hours during a pre-500 party. Please jot them a note saying you are going to forget that ever happened. Please also offer to reimburse them for the boat gas, pool chlorine, air conditioning Freon, Dr. Pepper and anything else you consumed while you were there. I don't have their address anymore, you can look it up.

3. Please let me know when your father runs for anything. I'm going to run against him.

3 (B). Thanks for staying out of Republican politics. Your heavyweight presence in the party will be sorely missed. I am very involved in ice hockey. I play recreationally and coach a youth team in the winter. I would prefer it if you could stop being involved in all things related to ice and ice hockey . You can use those instant first aid coldpaks to cool your drinks from now on. Also, my parents have been very involved with the Indianapolis 500 Festival for nearly 20 years. The month of May is really a big month for us. While I am not able to honor your request of moving out of Indianapolis, I would ask that you just leave town during May. With 250,000 fans going to the race and 35,000 runners in the Mini-Marathon, I don't want to run the risk of bumping into you. I know your birthday is in May, but man, I just don't care.

4. Christ, I don't have the energy for this one.

5. If any of my friends from Wabash actually still talk to you, they are fired as friends.

5 (B). I'm not going to tell my kids anything about you. But speaking of kids, it would be okay with me if my son was a crack addict, just as long as he got your kids hooked on it and became their dealer.

In closing, I will never make decisions about my life or my family based on whether I might run into you at the store. I am now convinced that if we ever do bump into each other, you will spontaneously combust. I wish you the best of luck find a spouse.

Seriously. It won't be easy to find a person who is willing to spend the rest of his life raising children and making decisions based on your crazy-ass proposal to an ex-boyfriend and your inability to act like a rational human being.

All my best,

Davey

---

Seriously people. If I ever become Sarah, shoot me. Hold me down and shoot me.

The Naysayer

called me just now for the sole purpose of telling me that the following quote from "Scrubs" reminded him of my interactions with the shy/nerdy guy:

[In response to a particularly bad joke]

"You would hear crickets chirping, but they were too uncomfortable about just how unfunny that actually was."

I'm saying that the next time the shy guy makes a bad joke. Is that mean?

Why is it always something

So, as what inevitably happens to all relationships I have had thus far, the one with the shy guy appears to be nearing its demise, as explained in my post below. I questioned myself as to whether I'm being too picky. Self-sabotaging -- in other words, look for tiny minor flaws to avoid a real relationship. But I don't think so. The shy guy's nerdiness is just too much for me.

The complicated thing about the shy guy is that, aside from his nonexistent sense of humor and nerdy behavior and other things that I won't mention in this blog but that are also significant, he's a good guy. Sweet, thoughtful, kind. Also cute and intelligent. I argued with myself, maybe I could deal with the things I had problems with. After all, I myself am flawed. Very flawed. So who am I to judge?

But, as I envisioned gouging out my brain with an ice pick after hearing another one of the shy guy's horrible jokes, I realized that being mentally revolted by someone is probably not the mark of a long-lasting relationship. And I've said time and time again, to my friends, on this blog, that sense of humor is so important to me. I'd take an average-looking joe who cracks me up over a witless Brad Pitt-clone any day. Any. Day.

So back to square 1. Again.

My limit

We all have limits. Limits to what we can eat. Limits to what we can fathom.

Recently, I have come to realize that I myself have limits. Limits to how much nerdiness I can handle.

Let me just say first off that I will be the first to admit that I have nerdy tendencies. I am a Star Trek fan, specifically of the original and the Next Generation series. I loved and still love reading "The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams. And I used to memorize the squares of numbers up to 30 "just for fun" while working at my parents' pharmacy. So really, I readily acknowledge that I, along with perhaps everyone else, have some modicum of nerdiness.

That being said. I can't take it. The shy guy has surpassed my nerd-threshold.

Now. It's not that he pontificates on square roots and quasars, because even that would be interesting. It's not the subject of his conversations or his interests. It's the way he carries himself. And his jokes.

In case people can't tell, I have a slightly sarcastic sense of humor. And I enjoy a good witty banter once in a while. The shy guy's sense of humor, to the extent that it even exists, is completely devoid of wit. Bereft. Nonexistent.

Oh, I can work with that, I had reasoned with myself. Not everyone is going to be a repository of wit and charm, I had assured myself.

As each date progressed, however, I found myself not only not laughing in the wake of his horrid jokes. But cringing. Wincing. Grimacing.
______
Example 1:

Me: "I think that ship is made of steel and wood."

Him: "Huhuhuh. You said 'wood.' Get it? Huhuhuhuh."

Me: "Yeah I get it. That's pretty lame."

Him: "Huhuhuh."
______
Example 2:

Me: "I love banana creme pie."

Him: "Do you like oranges too?"

Me: "Uh...yeah..."

Him: "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

Me: "That doesn't even make sense. And I hate that knock knock joke."

Him: "Huhuhuhuh."
______
Example 3 (last one, I promise):

Me: "So my doctor guessed that I developed a slight allergy to that particular pollen..."

Him: "Maybe you're allergic to ME. Huhuhuh."

Me: "Was that even a joke? I don't get it."

Him: "Get it? Your allergic reaction was caused by me, not the pollen. Get it?"

Me: "Seriously, dude. How do you come up with these jokes?"

Him: "Huhuhuh. Ow, that hurt."

Me: "Dude. I couldn't come up with jokes this bad if I tried. I truly think it takes a certain amount of ingenuity to come up with jokes that make me want to vomit every meal I've had in the last 24 hours."

Him: "Ouch. That's harsh! Huhuhuh."
______
Hello, what I wanted was a comeback. Not a statement of the obvious.

The way he carries himself is also incredibly nerdy. The way he laughs artificially when I make a joke. I mean, I'm occasionally amusing, but when I say something innocuous like "That car has seen better days" - pointing to a car with a dented fender - he chortles like the laugh track to a bad "Friends" episode.

Another time, we were having dim sum. I took a piece of tofu from one of the plates in the center to put it on my plate. After a minute, I took a piece of Chinese spinach to put on my plate. And each time I used my chopsticks to lift the food from the dim sum plates to my plate, he'd stare at me, then the food, then me. I avoided looking at him because, like most people, I like to ignore people's social retardations for as long as I can. Yet each time I lifted a dumpling or roll to my plate, I could see in my peripheral vision his head robotically jerk from the food, to me, back to the food, back to me. Back. And forth.

What the fuck.

After several mintues of his strange behavior, I couldn't take it anymore and asked him, "Why do you keep staring at me and the food like that?"

"I don't know. I want to give you a hard time. Huhuhuh."

I looked at him. "That makes no sense."

"Huhuhuh."

Okay people. What you have just read is just a sample of what I experience in several minutes with this guy. Imagine whole hours. Whole days. It's unbearable. So while he is sweet, caring, thoughtful and profound, I ... just ... can't handle his nerdiness. I've reached my threshold. My tolerance level. My limit.

Just a tip.

Very few women will tire of hearing her significant other say to her, "You're beautiful."

Not "You're cute." Not "You're attractive." Not "You're pretty." But "You're beautiful."

Most effective when it's unexpected and, of course, sincere.

Ointment

A middle-aged, portly man stood in front of me, donning a striped t-shirt and cargo shorts. As we waited for the light to turn green, he reached with his left hand to scratch his back. Now, watching a middle-aged, portly man scratch his back is one thing. But he lifted his shirt to scratch his back. And I couldn't help but look and see what perhaps no one should see only five minutes after having lunch. There were rolls of blotchy flesh covered in an uneven layer of gray curly hair. I was additionally englightened on the source of his itch -- a bright pink boil the size of Rhode Island. It literally shined at me beneath the sunlight, as if cheerily alerting me to the fact that it may explode any second.

I reflexively looked away, but could still see the pink boil and the man's furry hand scratching it in my peripheral vision.

The light turned green, and I stood there for a second to give extra distance between me and the Boil Man.

Now seriously.

Without visions like these, I do not think humanity would be able to appreciate the beauty and wonders of the world.

Weird

Is it weird to be weirded out by the fact that you're not weirded out?

Okay people. Usually I am overly neurotic, analytical and more or less crazy when I start dating a guy, and subsequently blog/obsess over seemingly foreboding minutiae. But so far -- and I say this with tempered hope and wary optimism -- the shy guy hasn't triggered any of these tendencies. I actually feel...normal.

For now.

I can only hide the craziness for so long.

Ifs

I love hearing about how people meet. It fascinates me every time I hear a new story and reminds me of how fantastically random people's encounters with one another can be. A girl can sit at home after a shitty day at work and wonder whether or not she should go to her co-worker's birthday party. She hears the siren songs of her PJs and bucket of chocolate ice cream, and is just about to head to bed, when for some reason, she thinks to herself, "Why not?" And so she goes. And there, she meets a somewhat cute guy, a friend of a friend, whom, three years later, she marries. And perhaps that very guy, the week before, happened to take a later train than usual and happened to bump into an old college buddy who happened to invite him to this party.

So if he had taken a later train, or if she decided to stay in, they never would have met. Yet for some odd reason, an entire sequence of disconnected events through people and objects and time and chemicals in that person's brain amidst the circumstances led the guy and the gal to meet.

It fascinates me. And I think this fascination is the basis for about a million movies. People may attribute certain events to fate. Yet, while I appreciate how eerily well-timed events can lead to something wonderful, I won't relegate love to fate. It seems that the randomness of it all is even more supernatural and magical than fate.

I realized all of this as I perused the wedding section of the New York Times. I've scanned that page a few times to see if I'll recognize a name or two, and sometimes a particularly unique surname will compel me to click onto their story and how they met. An elevator. A get together. A work event. A friend of a friend. Totally random.

People (including me) look and look and look. And sometimes, people do meet and marry people they met after making their efforts, for example, match.com, a church social, and speed-dating (all of which I know for a fact have led to many marriages). Yet even in those settings, I believe the laws of randomness still apply.

It turns out that the shy guy (whom I'm still dating) and I were on the same exact online dating website. As some people may recall, I did a brief stint with online dating December 2005-January 2006. Yet his account was deactivated at the time I was on, and active before and after my stint. So apparently, we 'missed' each other. And for some reason, almost two years later, we happened to meet at a bar.

Random. Isn't it?

Not guilty

I was sitting in a pew in court. The courtroom was cavernous with high ceilings. And numerous lawyers sat with their brief cases, donning their charcoal, pinstripe or navy suits. As we all waited for the judge, it was silent, save for the sound of hushed voices and the clicking of keys on Crackberries.

Then my stomach emitted a growl.

Now normally, a stomach growl in a huge cavernous courtroom is only a bit embarrassing. "Wow someone is hungry" is the first thought a person will have upon hearing a stomach growl.

Except this single growl wasn't a normal typical growl. It was a humongo, low, deep, guttural growl.

In other words, it sounded like a fart.

The growl echoed throughout the room for probably about twenty seconds straight. People shifted uncomfortably in their seats and the man next to me avoided eye contact with me. It was pretty bad. I had actually felt the wooden pew vibrate as my stomach unforgivingly made its faux fart.

At that moment, I flipped open my phone, hoping I could pass it off as my cell phone ringing in vibrate mode. Maybe they'll buy it, I thought delusionally to myself.

Maybe not, as I heard a young male attorney snicker in the next row, peering at me over his shoulder.

And so I did what any other person in the wake of a recently emitted fart, growl and/or faux-fart-growl would do. Pretend that it didn't happen. Remain composed. And look around innocently as if to proclaim to the world: "It wasn't me."

A yellow gal walks into a bar

So the question arose, how I did meet the shy and slightly nerdy guy? No, it wasn't at the public library, a bookstore or Internet cafe. It was in perhaps the unlikeliest of places to pick up the shy and nerdy types: a bar.

But first off, he never came up to me. And I never went up to him.

I was in the ladies room, powdering my nose, when I happened to chit chat with a random girl. We totally hit it off. She was here for a birthday party, and as we exited the ladies' room, she brought me to the party area of the bar to introduce me to her friends. One of those friends was the shy guy.

When I first met him, I instantly thought he was cute, and was pleased to discover he could carry an intelligent conversation (rarity in a bar setting) and didn't give off that rico-suave-player vibe (another rarity in a bar setting). He was unassuming and easy-going. We exchanged numbers and actually ended up meeting up later to have one of those talk-til-the-sun-comes-up conversations about religion, science, God and the existence of Donald Trump's toupee.

It was in one of our later conversations that I learned that on that very night in that bar in which I met him, prior to the girl introducing me to her friends, a couple of his guy friends had spotted me across the bar and egged him on to talk to me (both of his guy friends were attached). He of course couldn't, due in part to his shy nature and also because I was chatting with another guy at the time (I was ordering a drink and happened to strike up a conversation with a random guy there).

One of his guy friend's girlfriends happened to be nearby while this occurred. And she happened to visit the ladies' room at the same time I did not too soon thereafter. And she happened to chit chat with me and we happened to hit it off.

Upon learning this latter sequence of events, I looked at my shy guy. "Wait a minute," I said, "so this was all a ruse? A ploy?!"

"No," he laughed. "I don't know what her motivations were for talking to you. I'm not even 100% sure she overheard her boyfriend egging me on. Either way, it worked out."

I laughed. How ingenious. IF it was all a ploy, it was pretty clever of the girl. I myself have approached girls in bars and did the junior-high-school "Hey, my friend thinks you're cute"-thing, to little success. To make the effort to talk with me and befriend me -- that takes it to a whole new level.

Yet neither of us are sure if she did chat with me intentionally. My shy guy indicated that he would never have been able to approach me in the bar anyway, even though he thought I was cute.

"What?" I asked. "Even if you think a girl is cute, you won't approach her?"

"No," he replied. "I'm way too shy."

"So what can a girl do to be more approachable?" I asked.

"There just needs to be something there. If a girl and I were in a same class or ran in the same running group, that'd be something. But in a random bar, there's no connection. No commonality. So I can't just walk up to a girl and chat with her."

"Interesting," I said.

Either way, it worked out. So far. For now. Remember, my goal is to contain my hopes. Poceed with caution. And take things one day at a time.

Ibuprofen

Right now, my neck is sore. Specifically, the left side. I think people have a preferred side to tilt their heads when they kiss someone for a really really long time, and it appears that I tend to tilt my head to the right, thereby over-utilizing my left neck muscles. Of course, sitting sideways on a park bench doesn't help that much either. So it was a good thing the cop slowed down to a halt next to us last night when it did to tell us that the park was closed. Otherwise, my neck would be really sore.

Oh by the way, I met a boy.

I know my m.o. is to regale the virtual blog world on how I met the boy, how it all started, every subsequent date and so on. But I won't. Because there are way too many details.

Suffice it to say that he's pretty cute, articulate, profound yet silly, and...shy and slightly nerdy.

Okay, there's something about the shy-and-slightly-nerdy guys that makes me pursue them a little more than I would a "normal" guy. So I admit. I broke all the Rules. (I called him instead of waiting for him to call me.) And so did he. (He called me less than 24 hours of first meeting me instead of waiting 3 days to call me. Then he called me the next day.)

Upon listening to the trepidation and excitement in my voice when I described the shy guy, my friend smiled and said, "Hmm, I want to meet this guy who makes you so nervous."

"He's kind of nerdy," I warned her as I remembered his occasional corny jokes and awkward demeanor.

"That's your type," she said.

"What?"

"Look at Love-of-your-life #1. Look at Love-of-your-life #2. Both nerdy," she explained. "It makes sense."

"Oh," I said.

And after she met him, she nodded to me, "Yep, he's nerdy. Not as nerdy as #1. But on par with #2. Still, he's pretty cute. And he seems like a good guy."

Both Love-of-my-life #s 1 and 2 were somewhat quiet and nerdy. And with both of them, I suppose I broke the Rules. Because something about the quiet nerdiness makes me more proactive, bold and confident. Also, they probably wouldn't have done anything unless I threw something out there like a phone call or an open invitation.

So last night, I was with the shy guy. He was leaving for business this morning and would be gone for three weeks. As a result, we talked on the phone virtually every night and saw each other five times in the one week we knew each other, just after first meeting each other. (Rules? What Rules?)

And all that time, he hadn't kissed me. And I really really really wanted him to. Even with #s 1 and 2, I made the guy make the first move. (Though with #1 I resorted to saying, "So are you going to kiss me or what?" after dating for three weeks. In #1's defense, he had never kissed a girl before.)

Anyhow, I was with the shy guy last night, sitting on the park bench, leaning my head on his shoulder and gazing at the trees and grass and moths flickering by the park lamps. At one point, the moment was so there, I was literally hollering in my mind, "Hello - I'm waiting! Just frigging bust a move and kiss me!"

And finally, what felt like eons later, he did. Finally.

And it was nice.

And so today my neck is sore. I wonder if his is too.

The Mom

I called my mom the other day to chit chat. At one point, she lowered her voice and said to me in a hushed tone, "I worry about you."

Worry about me? Worry about what?

Was she worried that I lived alone in a big big city in an apartment by myself? That I might slip on the bathtub and knock myself unconscious and drown in my own bath? That one day coming home from work at 11 pm I might get raped and murdered and no one would find my limp body in the dumpster until three days later?

No.

She was worried I would become a Spinster.

"You're almost thirty now," she said mournfully, as if delivering a eulogy, "I worry that you become Spinster. I pray for you every day that you find a good man. Soon."

I laughed despite myself. "Um, thanks Mom."

She wouldn't be Mom unless she was Mom.

A person

As one progresses from childhood to adulthood, a person will come to many startling realizations. There is no Santa. Babies come from sex, not heaven. Mommy and Daddy are sometimes wrong. Life isn't fair. Fortune cookies don't always have fortunes in them. Et cetera, et cetera.

One of the eeriest realizations for me is the fact that my mom isn't just Mom, but an actual...person. A woman.

WEIRD, isn't it?

I was reminded of this while reading "Behind the Scenes at the Museum," by Kate Atkinson (who by the way is a frigging kick-ass writer, the kind of writer I wish I could be). The main character at one point looks at her mom at a moment when the mom is particularly vulnerable, and is just struck by that raw vulnerability and the life her mother lived (or rather, didn't live).

Most of the time I see my mom as Mom. Cooker of food. Nagger. Affixer of band-aids. Disciplinarian. Comforter. But every once in a while, something I witness or read will remind me that she's a real person with this whole life story that preceded my existence.

It's frigging WEIRD.

Poem of a Bad Mathematician(or Something You Write After Being Coked up on Several Shots of Espresso)

You could even my oddness.

I could odd your evenness.

And if we're both odd, then together we add up to an even.

Though if you are the One, that would make you odd.
And infinite.
And then One plus One would not equal two but one.

Then we'd both be odd and uneven.
Together.
And infinite.

The gravel path

I grew up in a Christian household, where Bible study was as important a subject as geography or literature. My experience with the opposite sex, from age 0 to 18, was very very limited. Virtually nonexistent in fact. I was the quiet, modestly smart girl whom the boys just couldn't see "in that way." And while my love life remained steady at 0%, my notions of like, like-like, and love bloomed inversely. The Christian additive of spiritual and perfect love perhaps catalyzed my idealism.

Up until age 15, I had never kissed a boy. My forays into romance in high school were limited to one-sided crushes and the one boy I dated for a week. And yes, the one boy was the only boy I had kissed in high school and we only kissed once.

Not that I went to a pristine high school. Kids were having sex at age 12. I knew a girl who had an abortion at age 14. And I had heard of parties where people got drunk and got high and "hooked up." To me, all of this was as foreign as showing up to church without a Bible. And so, in the absence of a love life, any experience I had with any guy was magnified ten fold.

One such experience began with a gravel path.

It was winter and I was fifteen years old. I was walking to church on the gravel path, a remote side street that served as the boundary line between a lightly wooded area and a yellowed grass field. That morning my brother had gone to a different church with his friend and my mother had gone to an earlier service. I had no ride so I had to walk the mile and a half to church. It was a little cold, but tolerable, probably 40 degrees.

As I walked along the road, I could hear a car drive slowly from behind. I walked to the edge of the road to let the car pass. But instead of passing by, the small white sedan slowed down. The driver was a young man, Yellow, with smooth tawny skin that stretched over his high cheekbones. Next to him was another young man, also Yellow. The driver rolled down his window and smiled. "Hi there."

"Hi," I said, still walking, holding my Bible and notepad to my chest. His smile was so warm, I couldn't help but smile back.

He kept driving along next to me. "Isn't it too chilly to be walking by yourself?" he asked me.

"Nah," I said, still walking, "it's fine."

"Where you off to?" he asked.

"Church."

"Really? Me too. Which one?"

"First Presbyterian Church, right down this road."

"Really? That's where we're going to too."

I stopped walking. "Really? Which service do you go to?"

"The college group with Pastor Ham."

"Oh yeah," I said. "I'm in the youth group. I guess our services start around the same time."

"Do you need a ride?" he asked me.

I looked at the empty back seat and then turned to the gravel path that stretched ahead of me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was perhaps a little too chilly to be walking by myself. Still, I felt obligated to say, "Are you sure that's okay?"

"Of course," he said. And so he unlocked the back of his car and I opened it and hopped in. As I sat in the back seat, adjusting my Bible and notepad, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror so that I could only see his narrow eyes. "By the way, I'm Johnny."

"Hi Johnny," I said, "I'm Yellow Gal."

"And this is Tom."

Tom turned around to say to me, "Hi."

"Hi Tom," I said. He turned back around to face the road.

I don't remember exactly what we chatted about for the next few minutes. Was it about church? The youth group? The upcoming church retreat? I'm not sure. I do remember sitting there in the back, feeling the car quake on the bumpy gravel path and looking at Johnny through the rearview mirror, or just his eyes rather, as he glanced from the road to me throughout the ride. And suddenly I didn't feel that cold anymore; I felt very warm in fact, just sitting there and talking to him. He was so easy-going, so friendly. Tom, for the most part, spoke only once or twice to interject a "yeah" or "uh huh."

When we got to church, he drove up to the youth group entrance to drop me off. "Thank you," I smiled to him as I shut his door.

"No problem," he said to me with a nod. I stood there, wanting him to say something more. But instead he drove away to the lot to park his car.

I went to service as usual, my heart beating beneath the Bible I held to my chest, still shivering from the bumpy ride. He definitely seemed older. The way he spoke was just different from the way the boys in my algebra class spoke. Something more grown up, but still boyish.

I hoped against all hope that I would bump into him in church that day, in the hallway or out on the lawn. But I didn't. For the next several weeks, I looked for him on Sundays, hoping I'd see him again before or after his service. But I didn't. My fifteen year old mind envisioned various circumstances under which I would bump into Johnny. At the supermarket perhaps. Or maybe at the mall. Maybe we'd bump into each other at the same Christian shop. But we didn't.

And so, of course, as time passed my crush faded and in its wake, other short-lived crushes cropped up and similarly faded. It would be a year before I'd see Johnny again.

I was sixteen now and had made the JV cheerleading squad for what would be a brief stint in high school. It was winter and therefore basketball season. The JV basketball team just finished winning their game, and the gym court cleared for the varsity cheerleaders and varsity basketball players to warm up before their game. I was chatting with some squad members, commenting on a particularly pathetic toe touch the other team's cheerleader did, when I happened to spot a random girl in crutches hobble around the court. She stopped in front of one of the bleachers and started playfully kicking someone with her still good leg.

That someone looked very very familiar.

I broke away from the group and started walking towards the girl and her victim. As I got closer and closer, I recognized the tawny skin, the smooth cheekbones. It was Johnny. He seemed to be sitting with a group of upperclassmen.

"Stop kicking me!" Johnny was saying to the the girl, laughing.

"Ha-ha!" she said as she swatted him one last time with one of her crutches before hobbling away, giggling.

I stood there, pom poms in hand, staring at Johnny, until he looked at me. "Hi," I breathed.

"Um, hi," he said. Clearly he didn't recognize me.

"Um," I said, "didn't you give me a ride before?"

One of the older high school girls behind him started snickering. "That sounded bad," she smirked. So much for an opener.

"Huh?" he said. "A ride?"

"Um," I said. "Last year. I was walking to church and you gave me a ride. It was to First Presbyterian Church...?"

He kind of looked at me for a second and narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah," he said nodding slowly. "I kinda remember you. You were in the youth group?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's Yellow Gal. In case you forgot."

"Oh yeah, I remember," he said, smiling. I beamed at him, wringing my pom poms in my hand.

"You're Johnny, right?"

"Right," he smiled. And we chatted some more. I sat down next to him on the bleachers and we talked about where he was now (still in college) and whether he went back to that church (no). I soon learned that he had attended my high school a few years before. Apparently he knew some of the older siblings of some of the upperclassmen. We watched the varsity game and he, in a very unsportsmanlike manner, yelped a falsetto "shazoo!" every time the other team had a foul shot. It usually worked. And as crude as his behavior was, I of course found it endearing.

The game ended with another win. As people started trickling out of the gym in good spirits, I stood up. "Well," I said, "I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up now."

"Oh, do you want a ride?" he asked.

"Ummm," I said. I did some quick mental math, wondering what were the chances of my parents freaking out over a college guy giving me a ride home after 8 pm. Then I figured I could just lie and say so-and-so's mom drove me home, it was on the way. "Sure!" I chirped.

(I could always ask God for forgiveness for lying and dishonoring my parents later.)

"Cool," he said.

And so I ran to the locker room to grab my bookbag and jacket, and met him by the gym's side exit. He held the door open for me as I exited the gym. It was very dark outside.

"Isn't it so funny how we bumped into each other again?" I said, walking next to him.

"Yeah," he said as he pulled out his keys, "what a coincidence."

By the time we got to his car, there was only the distant sound of people hooting and cars driving away. His white sedan glowed faintly beneath the dim street lights. He unlocked my door and opened it for me (Such a gentleman! I had thought to myself). Then he closed the door for me once I was seated. I watched him get in the car, seat himself comfortably, place the key in the ignition and turn the engine on. He fiddled with the radio a bit before settling on a station. Ace of Base was singing "The Sign," and Johnny and I just sat there, waiting for the car to warm up. Then he turned to me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," he said.

"Oh," I said, "okay." I was suddenly worried that he'd think I was just a kid, too young and immature to like-like, much less like. He's probably used to older mature college girls, I thought to myself. I really really wanted him to like me.

"My dad's ten years older than my mom," I added. And as soon as I said that, I felt really stupid.

He kind of laughed and brushed my cheek with his hand before putting the car in reverse. "You're really cute," he said as he began backing out.

I felt my heart race. "Cute" as in funny? Or "cute" like a baby? Or "cute" like a woman? People always think I look 12 years old, I thought miserably to myself. He pulled out of the parking lot and I gave him directions to my house. As I sat next to him, I looked at his face and watched it flicker beneath the passing street lights, and his hands as they steadily steered the steering wheel. He looked different at night.

Soon we were pulling into my driveway at my house. He slowed the car in front of my garage and put the car in park.

"Well," I said nervously, "it was good chatting with you. Thanks for the ride!"

"No problem," he said slowly. I was adjusting my bookbag to leave when he asked me, "So can I have your number?"

I felt my heart skip a beat. "Sure," I said. JOHNNY IS ASKING ME FOR MY NUMBER! I was screaming inside my mind. I stealthily unzipped my bag, shuffled for a notebook and pen, ripped out a corner of a page, and scribbled my name and number on it.

Then I handed it to him shyly. "Sorry it's so sloppy," I offered.

"No worries. Thanks," he said, "I'll call you."

"Cool," I said, beaming. Then I hopped out of his car, closed the door, and walked to my front door, listening to the sound of his white sedan back out of the driveway.

* * *
Okay this blog entry is getting long. I'll finish the rest of this anecdote some other time. A couple things struck me though as I relived this memory: (1) It's kind of scary for a fifteen year old girl to get into a car with two male strangers on a remote road in the middle of winter. It sounds like the beginning of a really scary movie, doesn't it? and (2) It's kind of grody for a 21 year old college dude to fraternize with a 16 year old. But at the time neither of those instances struck me as odd. Parents, watch your kids!

Anyhow, I'll finish some other time.

A couple things

I'm going to do before I turn 30 this December:

1) Sky dive
2) Vegas, baby

I've never done either. My head will probably explode during both events from sensation-overload. My goal is to survive unscathed. Or at least survive.

I know I know

I need to get a grip. For some reason, I'm starting to miss him. Now. Why now and not last week or the week before? I suppose the past couple of weeks I was playing the part of "Bitter Sarcastic Yellow Gal." But now, I kind of miss the bugger.

The last few weekends, Bitter Sarcastic Yellow Gal has been going out and dancing and binge-drinking like a college kid, trying to throw herself out in the sea of non-GD men, meet new people and have as much fun as possible. "See, World?" Bitter Sarcastic Yellow Gal said while wobbling on a bar stool, "I can have fun and be fun without GD."

Yet as the hangover from the past few weekends wears off this Sunday evening, I realize it was all a front. Being dissed by someone you like sucks. I know I know, it's not like the end of a 20-year marriage with your soulmate. And I seriously need to move on. But I guess it's sort of hitting me now. Sucks.

Scenarios that I entertain in my head but I shouldn't because I'm not in high school anymore and should know better

Of course, all pertaining to GD. I think I watched a lot of bad sitcoms and 80s movies.

Scenario #1
I bump into GD unexpectedly. As usual, he looks effortlessly gorgeous. And on his arm is a similarly effortlessly gorgeous girl. She wears a tasteful sleeveless sun dress with a matching headband that pulls back her straight dark hair. She's the pretty girl who can pull off a sun dress with matching headband. I'm wearing my should've-donated-to-the-homeless clothes and my hair is tied loosely in a librarian bun. I am not able to escape as I've already been spotted so I have no choice but to walk up to the happy couple, sans man, and make nice.

"Hi," I say to them, and happily, they say hi back. GD introduces the effortlessly gorgeous girl as "my girlfriend."

I fake smile, fake laugh and fake happy. As my sense of decency forces me to chat with them more than one second, I realize, with horror, that not only is the girlfriend gorgeous, but also intelligent, funny and kind.

"She's enrolled in Harvard's JD/MBA program for the fall," GD says while reverently looking at her.

And ambitious.

"Nice," I reply, while thinking money grubbing capitalist whore.

"Yeah, I hope to use my degrees to expand this non-profit organization I spearheaded a couple years ago for kids with leukemia," she says. "My niece has leukemia now, but I think with more funding and lobbying, she'll be back in school in no time." And then she smiles that kind of smile you know isn't fake, the kind that you can't help but smile back at. As much as I want to, I can't help but feel myself like her just a little. So not only is gorgeous, intelligent, funny, sweet and ambitious -- she's making the world a better place. Could it get any worse?

"I'm so glad General Electric and Bristol-Myers gave me those grants, otherwise I have no idea how I could afford it!" she exclaims as if still relieved.

And poor.

Afterwards, I go home and go into party planning mode -- pity-party-planning, that is. It'll be a party of two. Me and a bottle of Jack Daniels. No cups. No napkins. I need mouth-to-bottle recussitation.

* * *
Scenario #2
I bump into GD unexpectedly. This time it's me looking effortlessly gorgeous. I'm having a good hair day. I'm not wearing the should've-donated-to-the-homeless clothes. In fact, I look like I got it going on. Effortlessly gorgeous man candy on my arm is optional. When you look this good, who needs a man to make you look better?

Of course, GD is still looking effortlessly gorgeous because he always is, whether he's wearing a ratty t-shirt with tattered jeans or gym shorts with flip flops. Anyway, being the mature and cool person that I am, I saunter over to him, say hi, and engage in artful chitchat. He is with his boys, sans girl. I joke with him and his boys, because I'm that girl, the fun charming girl who can chitchat with anyone anywhere anytime.

As I direct my attention to GD I can't help but notice something. Sometimes a girl can tell when a guy is so enamoured by her that he smiles in a peculiar way and talks to her as if there's something lodged in the back of his throat. (Granted, I myself have no idea what this is like but in Scenario #2, I do.) As GD smiles at me in a peculiar way and talks to me as if there's something lodged in the back of his throat, my cell phone chirps. It's a text message.

"I have to run," I lilt to him.

"Hot date?" he jokes weakly.

"I have to run," I repeat and hug him. "It was good seeing you again," I say.

"Yeah it was," he says.

I wave goodbye to him and his boys, walk away, leaving them all wondering why, god, why, did he let me go.

* * *
Scenario #3
One of my friends just got a new job and we're at a local watering hole to celebrate. While my friends are at the bar ordering lemon drop shots, I stop by the ladies' room to powder my nose and check for smeared eyeliner. As I head back to the bar, I survey the room and its rather unimpressive occupants. The jukebox finishes playing "Baby Got Back" with the familiar whip snap, and suddenly a familiar song comes on, "D'yer Mak'er" by Led Zeppelin.

And then I see him. GD. Leaning over his glass, in a baseball cap, t-shirt and jeans, chatting with some guys. I can't help but smile because the last time I heard the song was at his place, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, when he had it on repeat on his iPod. And I think he was wearing that same cap.

As Robert Plant croons "You don't have to go," GD for some reason looks up from his drink, looks around the room and sees me. And smiles. I smile back. He stands up and walks toward me. And as we make our way across the room, everything suddenly becomes slow motion and the ambient bar noise muffles into nothing but the song. In a moment, we're standing in front of each other.

"Hey," he smiles.

"Hi," I beam. "How you been?"

"Good, good," he nods, "how about you?"

"Good." I look around the room and nod. "Good song."

"I love this song," he says.

"I remember," I say, the song continuing in the background, "You hurt me to my soul."

"Good memory," he smiles.

"Nah. I just listen."

We walk over to a little table nearby, sit down, and catch up and chat. It's as if nothing happened, as if there were no memory of the Hamster Incident or the passive aggressive MIA bull shit, as if everything had been okay all along and still is. But I know it's not.

In the middle of the conversation, I realize that I have to ask him the question I had been meaning to ask him all along: "So ... what happened?"

He sits there for a moment and blinks a few times. I know he knows exactly what I'm talking about. "I don't know," he says to me, shaking his head. "I just ... couldn't anymore."

I nod, because I finally get it. "I see," I say.

"Hey, do you want a drink or something?" he says nodding his head toward the bar and pulling out his wallet.

"Uh, I can't. I better get back to my friends." I then gesture to the audibly cheerful group at the bar. "My friend just got a new job and there's a shot glass with my name on it."

"Oh cool," he says. "Congrats to her!"

"Yeah," I reply and stand up. He stands up too. God he still looks good.

"It was good seeing you, Yellow Gal," he says.

"It was good seeing you too," I say.

Then he hugs me for what appears to be the last time and says, "Bye, Yellow Gal."

"Bye," I say, and walk away.

* * *
Okay that's it.

I guess #3 is the "closure" scenario. Which, while more likely to occur than Sceniario #s 1 and 2, will still not occur.

Fiction is fun!

Last night

I saw "Knocked Up." It's not exactly brimming with high brow humor but I thought it was funny. There's one part in the movie where Alison (Katherine Heigle) and Ben (Seth Rogen) are kissing and then Alison stops for a second and asks Ben, point blank, "You're a sweet guy, right?"

"Yes," he says.

"You're not gonna fuck me over right?" she asks. "Don't fuck me over."

"I'm the guy girls fuck over, so don't fuck me over," he responds.

I found that scene very honest and poignant. I want to say that to every guy I meet: "Please don't fuck me over." Of course, every guy (including those that will) say they won't.

A gal can only hope.

For some reason

this video, "Stick Figures On Crack 3," the third installment of some dude's series, "Stick Figures On Crack," really cracks me up. This from someone who's never been on crack.

Seriously

To maintain my streak of cheerful blog entries that so far have ranged from biting self-deprecation to pessimism, I must ask the question: is it me, or is it tacky of MSN Hotmail to have on its splash page (or whatever you call the page that appears when you first log in) a link to an article, "Men's deadliest health threats," on Father's Day of all days? Now I realize I may be somewhat sensitive to this because my father and both my grandfathers have all passed away. But still. Today is Father's Day, we're supposed to be celebrating our relationships with our dads, grandpas, uncles, etc.--not discussing the various ways they can kick the can. I'm all about maintaining health, but really, it's a bit tacky to say the equivalent of, "Happy Father's Day! Now here are the ways your dad can croak."

Then again, the titles above the how-your-dad-can-croak article are: "How to dress like Madonna" and "Celeb kids & famous dads." So if I want to be dumb and overanalytical about it, I could interpret MSN Hotmail as first giving suggestions to Dad on how to be a drag queen, then letting Dad know how he falls short of male brats and their bratty offspring, and then enlightening him on the most likely ways he'll kick the can.

Okay, so maybe the MSN Hotmail webpage developers did not sit in a circle and deliberate on how they could be tacky on Father's Day. They probably instant messaged. Just kidding, but seriously though, I think I have a point here. There's room for improvement in the Tact Department. Posting the above article on Father's Day is akin to displaying an article on Valentine's Day, "The conclusive link between marriage and suicidal depression." Seriously.

Who's a cynic

They say that what goes around comes around. The theory is, whatever evil you do to others will come to you. Let's say a guy cheats on his girlfriend. Her friends tell her, "What goes around comes around." And somehow, this is supposed to make everyone feel better because the universe or higher being(s) will do unto the guy what he did unto the girlfriend. And maybe later on in life, the guy's wife cheats on him. "What goes around comes around," everyone surmises, and somehow, that shows how everything came full circle.

But if what went around really came around, then Hitler wouldn't have gotten off so easy, innocent children wouldn't be forced into labor, and murderers and child molesters wouldn't be acquitted on a technicality. Now if you ascribe to a religion or faith, then yes, Hitler and child molesters will go to Hell or the equivalent thereof in other religions. Yet in this life, there are people who do lots of bad things and go on to live perfectly happy lives, without guilt, shame or punishment.

Let's face it. Shit happens. There is no rhyme or reason. I suspect that, for the most part, people tell themselves "what goes around comes around" to justify or rationalize the bad events that seem to happen for no reason. This goes hand in hand with the saying, "everything happens for a reason."

In my life, I certainly don't think that all the people who've mistreated me will have bad things happen to them because of what they did. And if bad things did happen to them, it wouldn't be because of their bad acts. Bad people and bad things just sometimes exist and occur. It's a part of life. They serve no purpose. They just sucked. Maybe they made me tougher, wiser, and more self-reliant. But I don't think you can tell a girl who was abused when she was 8 that her abuse "happened for a reason." Given the choice, I think she'd rather that not happen at all. And I don't think telling her that "what goes around comes around" assuages the trauma of her abuse. Especially if her abuser has a good defense attorney and is subsequently acquitted.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. Maybe, if we try hard enough, we can see the silver lining in every shitty thing that happens. And even if there is no silver lining, maybe some people just need to believe that there is something or Someone out there who will right all the wrongs. We all need our beliefs, don't we? Otherwise, we just might have to relent to a fact so unbearable, so unimaginable, that we concoct religions and one-liners to circumvent it: that sometimes, life just sucks.

Tuesday

"Wake up," it said.

"No," she replied.

"Do you know what day it is," it said.

"No," she replied.

"According to your birth control dispenser, it's Tuesday."

"Okay," she said.

"Why do you take birth control if you don't have sex?"

"To stay regular," she replied.

"Isn't it sad that the only way you know what day it is today is through your birth control pill dispenser?" it said. "And you're not even getting any."

She threw her pillow over her head.

"You can't block me out," it said in her ear.

"I know," she said, "but can I pretend?"

"No."

"Please, stop talking to me."

"I can't stop because I won't stop."

"Fine."

"Do you know who I am?" it asked her.

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"You are the Voice," she said, "the Voice in the Back of my Mind. The one that tells me after I've left the house that I can't pull off that shirt. The one that says he's probably too good for me. The one that tells me I'm dumb, fat and ugly and will therefore die alone."

"Ah, so we've met."

"Yes, Voice, we have. Now please, leave me alone."

"Not until."

"Until what?"

"Until you convince me otherwise."

"Convince you otherwise what?"

"Until you convince me I'm wrong."

"Is that how this works?"

"Yes," it said. "For example, whenever I say you're fat, you take it, instead of having a comeback."

"Okay."

"Hello -- the proper response is, 'I'm not fat. I'm hot.' "

"That's supposed to be my response?"

"Yes," it said.

"Why are you giving me advice on shutting you up?"

"Because," it said, "you need it."

"Okay."

"Plus, it's kind of boring to kick someone while she's down."

"Right."

"So the next time I say you're dumb, you say...?"

"I'm smart, not dumb."

"Good," it said, "and...?

"Um," she thought a bit, "I wouldn't have been able to go to the schools I did, get the results I did, and get to where I was if I were dumb."

"There you go."

"Some people use sex or nepotism or connections to get to where I am now."

"Uh huh."

"And I worked my ass off."

"Right."

"Ergo, I'm smart, and, with all due respect, you need to shut the fuck up."

"Yeah, there you go," it said.

"No really, shut the fuck up."

"Okayokayokay. I'll go," it said sheepishly. "But you get the idea. Just remember this the next time you hear me."

"What I just say? Did I stutter?" she said. "Shut the fuck up."

"All right. I'm out."

She waited a minute and, after hearing nothing, pulled the pillow off her head and opened her eyes. There was nothing in the room. Nothing but silence. Sweet, serene silence. And it was nice.

An exercise in decorum

Another inevitability of ending a non-relationship is that all the people you gushed to about it will inevitably ask you about it. Then you have to come up with a nice, diplomatic spiel.

Last night, I had dinner and drinks with a casual friend. I wouldn't say she's a good friend, but a newer friend with whom I have had dinner and drinks a handful of times. She inevitably asked, "So how's it going with Your Man, GD?"

My Man? How about my Non-Man. I sighed and said, "It's not."

"What?! What happened?!" she asked, her eyes widening.

Now, to discuss someone behind their back (or, to put it more diplomatically, talk about someone when that person is not present) is a delicate matter. It's best to assume that every word you say will probably get back to the person. Last night, I hadn't properly rehearsed my recap of the non-end of the non-relationship with my non-man. So I think I blabbered a bit more with the casual friend more than I should have. I said it bothered me how it ended but overall I'm okay about it. She kept prodding more and more, "So you're really okay? How do you feel? You're okay?" And after a couple drinks and continual prodding, I relented and told her I thought it was kind of lame of GD to purport to be an upfront person and then engage in the opposite behavior. She responded, "Oh. You're very sensitive."

Not really sure how one responds to that. I deduced from her complete lack of sympathy that she disagreed with my assessment. Also, is it ironic if you're sensitive to the fact that someone called you sensitive?

Anyhow, I know she has a friend who's friends with a friend of GD. That's the great thing about living in a large city. You are lulled into this illusion that everyone is disconnected because the city is so big. But they're not.

I mitigated my blabbering by repeating to her, "GD is a good guy. I genuinely believe that." And I'm hoping she was too drunk to remember anything I said. Which wasn't even that bad to begin with. I just like to minimize damage, minimize potential damage, and minimize potential potential damage.

So tomorrow night, my guy friend is throwing a little soirée. I will for sure bump into people who are acquainted with GD. So this is how I'm thinking I should handle the inevitable question: "So how's it going with GD?":

Me: "Oh, we're not dating anymore."

Inevitable response: "Ohhh, why not?"

"Oh, we just decided to go our separate ways."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. We just went our separate ways. It's cool."

"Are you okay??"

"Yep. [smile and nod] Totally."

Then in my fantasy, they'll leave it at that and we'll talk about the finale of "Grey's Anatomy" or some other random chit chat.

I have a feeling though that it will not be so cut and dry and that psychological prodding will occur. I will just have to remind myself to be nice and diplomatic. Assume everything I say will get back to him. And most of all, look happy.

It's not me, it's you

When you stop dating someone, a fascinating, almost supernatural phenomenon occurs. Suddenly one third of the population begins to drive the same car he drives. The same make. The same model. The same color. Like somehow, there was some cosmic flyer that went out to the universe that said, "Please buy/rent this car and drive it around this person as much as possible."

So GD drives a black Lexus. And I'm serious, everywhere I go now, I suddenly see these black Lexuses. I go to the supermarket. Black Lexus turning into the parking lot. I walk from the train station to work. Black Lexus humming at a red light. Jogging by the water. Black Lexus parked by the sidewalk. And I'm not talking about just any Black Lexuses, I mean, identical or nearly identical model and year. It's frigging freaky. And it doesn't help that many car manufacturers mimic Lexus's design.

So whenever I see these Black Lexuses, I tend to undergo the same three physical reactions. First, I panic: Crap, I'm wearing my reject clothes that I should have donated to the homeless but I can't because today's a laundry day! Second, I peer into the Black Lexus to investigate. Third, I sigh of relief when I inevitably see a woman or geriatric man.

Yesterday, after a nice long jog, I was walking home in my drawstring pants and sweat-stained t-shirt when I saw the Black Lexus. Oh another false alarm, I tried to assure myself as my heart palpitated. But as I commenced physical reaction number 2 and peered inside, I noticed the dark hair, the smooth jawline, the assured right hand placed at 2:00 on the steering wheel.

It was GD. Now what dumpee wants her dumper to see her looking dumpy? I immediately looked away and skirted into the nearest edifice. Which would have been fine had it not been a sex shop for gay men. As I stood by the doorway near an assortment of edible paint, I waited for a minute to pass, waited for him to pass, so I could emerge from this shop in which 90% of the equipment were incompatible with my machinery. Suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate (ironic, isn't it). It was a text with a simple question: "Having fun in the sex shop?" I felt my heart stop. A minute later, he texted, "Hello to you too." And that was it. I never responded. I simply stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching the male clientele look at me dismissively. Too frumpy and flat to be a drag, they were probably thinking.

. . .

OKAY. I'm kidding. Nothing in the previous paragraph actually happened. I'm good at inventing worst case scenarios because I frequently am living one. No, what in fact happened was, I looked away and took a side street and kept walking, hoping he didn't see me, and if he did, hoping he didn't see me see him and take a side street. Chances are, it probably wasn't GD. I mean, never mind the fact that he lives literally half a mile from me.

My message is this: People of the world, stop driving Black Lexuses. It's freaking me out!

Good morning

There are many things a person can do at 4:20 in the morning. A person can go for an early morning jog. Perhaps watch an infomercial on TV. Or surf the web. Maybe eat some chocolate chip ice cream whilst reading a book.

This morning at 4:20, one person, whom I shall now refer to as Annoying Dumbass, went outside into the alley outside my apartment building, took with him a baseball bat and large empty plastic water cooler, and began beating the empty water cooler with the bat as loudly as he could.

Okay, I don't know for a fact if Annoying Dumbass was actually beating a water cooler with a baseball bat, but that's what it sounded like at 4:20 am when it woke me up. As I threw my pillow over my head, wishing myself to sleep, I involuntarily began fantasizing about owning a BB gun and transforming into a military level sniper that could shoot the bat out of Annoying Dumbass's hand and reduce the empty water cooler into tiny bits. And with each subsequent ear-splitting, mind-numbing thud, my fantasy evolved. The BB gun turned into a handgun. The a handgun became a rifle. The rifle morphed into a bazooka.

Just as the bazooka was about to transform into a missile, a neighboring woman screeched, "HEY CUT THAT OUT!"

The beating of the empty water cooler ceased and a young male voice sheepishly called out, "Sorry." Annoying Dumbass sounded like he was 20 years old.

Now seriously. When you're a 20-year-old dude and it's 4:20 am, shouldn't you be playing Wii or Sony Playstation or getting stoned or trashed or banging some chick(s)? Why on earth would you be beating a water cooler with a bat?

It makes no sense. I suppose this is just another question I can throw into my ever growing repository of Unanswerable Questions About Males.

I speak English

The English language is very interesting. It's so elastic and evolving. There are the different regions of America that've developed their own accents and words. Is it "soda" as they say in New York or "pop" as they say in Michigan? And there's the inevitable mixing with other "immigrant" languages in America, resulting in Spanglish or Chinglish.

And it doesn't end there. It goes beyond U.S. borders. For example, when I first watched the British version of "The Office," I didn't know what "whinging," "bender" or "tipple" meant. When I was in London a few years ago, I learned that the Brits actually did use the words "bloke" and "fancy." I like "fancy" because it is a nuanced version of "like." For example, I usually say, "Does he like her or like-like her?" Now I can say "Does he like her or fancy her?" Though it sounds terribly British to me.

I've heard Canadians say "bloody" (like "give me the bloody keys!") and "mum," which both sound very British to me.

Out of all the English-derived accents, the South African one sounds the most foreign to me. It sounds kind of British, but with a Southern accent. Like someone from London lived in Mississippi for a while or something. I think it's the way they pronounce their a's or i's, it's a bit more drawn out than the standard British accent. I think.

I really like the Scottish accent. It's almost lyrical. I remember listening to a rural Scottish radio station on my walkman, marvelling at the way they said their sharp o's and i's.

But alas, I'll resign to my standard American slightly northeast accent. That is, unless I get the case of the Madonna's.

Look & listen

My boss once told me, "Never listen to what a guy says. Watch what he does." Like you people, he has pretty much endured my GD saga in full detail. He said this in response to the hamster incident, when he remarked that GD was jealous. "But GD never gets jealous," I insisted, "That's what he told me."

"Look at his behavior," he said. "Look at his actions, not his words."

Then he started rattling off examples of other things less than savory men have said:

"She's just a friend."

"It wasn't me."

"Don't worry, I'll never cheat on you."

"I won't ever hit you again, I swear."

Some lies are certainly worse than others. And I think women believe the lies, despite conduct indicating otherwise, because we want to believe them. We want to believe the best in people, and especially in men we're already emotionally attached to.

I'm feeling much better about things, because I can sigh of relief that I at least know that it's done. The lie-rebutted-by-conduct GD told me time and time again was "I am open and honest about things" and "If I have a problem or an issue or have something to say, I'll say it."

I ignored the passive aggressive behavior, the evasiveness, and the fact that I had to force literally him to tell me every problem he had with me. Oh yeah, and the fact that's he's ending this non-relationship by never contacting me again. I clung to his touted philosophy of being open and honest because I wanted to believe it.

Lesson learned. Look at how a person behaves. Not what he says. Easy way or hard way, you'll learn. It's just harder learning the hard way.

Musings of two gals

My girlfriend and I were chatting on the phone about the guys in our lives, how they weave in and out of our lives, how weird and surreal it is that a man can be such a fundamental part of a gal's everyday life, from waking up in the morning, to coming home from work, to spending every weekend minute together -- and then poof, he disappears.

I speak more for my friend than myself, as she actually got to the boyfriend stage, and really began to fall for him. Then, they broke up. And now he's no longer a part of her life. It's like this entire person somehow just disappeared. And all she's left with is these memories of lazy Saturday and Sunday mornings, movies they watched, and lingering emotions. Other than the memories, it's as if he never existed.

Strange, isn't it? An entire segment of one's life, emotional and physical, is just gone.

But I suppose we all move on. Such is life. I think someone said life's a journey. Can't wait 'til we get there.

All day long,

the song, "Sweet Thing" by Rufus, has been in my head. If I liked GD more than I did, it'd be so apt. The song is so melodic, soulful and longing. The lyrics, without music accompaniment, don't do the song justice, but here they are:

I will love you anyway
Even if you cannot stay
I think you are the one for me
Here is where you ought to be
I just want to satisfy ya
Though you're not mine
I can't deny ya
Don't you hear me talking baby?
Love me now or I'll go crazy

[CHORUS:]
Oh sweet thing
Don't you know you're my everything?
Oh sweet thing
Don't you know you're my everything?
Yes, you are

I wish you were my lover
But ya act so undercover
To love you child my whole life long
Be it right, or be it wrong
I'm only what you make me, baby
Don't walk away, don't be so shady
Don't want your mind, don't want your money
These words I say, they may sound funny, but

[CHORUS:]
Oh sweet thing
Don't you know you're my everything?
Oh sweet thing
Don't you know you're my everything?
Yes, you are

Yes, you are

You are my heat
You are my fire
You make me weak with strong desire
To love you child my whole life long
Be it right, or be it wrong
I just want to satisfy ya
Though you're not mine
I can't deny ya
Don't you hear me talking baby?
Love me now or I'll go crazy

You're the heat, you are the fire
You're not mine, I can't deny ya
Don't you hear me talking, baby?
Love me now, or I'll go crazy

This is what I'm working with

I know one day, when I'm 70 years old, I'll look back fondly at some of the bad opening lines I got in my teens, twenties and thirties, and reminisce.

But that moment is not now.

I feel obligated as a concerned citizen, as a concerned human being, to apprised the public of what constitutes a bad opening line. A few recent examples:

1) A couple weeks ago, I was at a bar with another yellow gal. I was talking to a white guy who tells me he's a third year law student. "Cool," I think to myself, "he must have some modicum of intelligence." As we chit chat, he asks me my favorite question, "Where are you from?" Except, it's not just "Where are you from?" It's "Where are you from? You must be from California because there are a lot of Asians in California."

"No," I said. "I'm from the East Coast."

"Oh," he said, "I thought you were from California because there are a lot of Asians there."

Is it just me, or did that not make any sense? If I'm not mistaken, New York City has the 2nd largest Asian population in the U.S., after L.A.

If my life were a movie, this would be the part where I would turn to the camera and say, "Seriously? This is what I'm working with? This is my dating pool?"

2) Friday night, I get on the subway to meet up with a friend at a bar. I am semi-hooched out since we plan on clubbing - black halter top, jeans, black heels, silver hoop earrings. I soon learn that one of the good things about looking like a hoochie is that you get attention. One of the bad things about looking like a hoochie is that you get attention.

The subway car is virtually empty, so I choose the window seat of a two-seater-row. It's hot and muggy and I am fanning myself with a piece of paper. Then, a guy sits next to me. Which I think is weird because there's about a hundred empty seats in the rest of the car.

So I'm sitting there, praying that he won't start talking to me, already recoiling as I sense him looking directly at me as I fan myself and stare intently out the window.

"Wow you must be cold," he grinned, "you must be cold because you're fanning yourself."

I tried my best to stifle a grimace. "Um, no, actually, I'm hot," I explained, "that's why I'm fanning myself."

"Oh yeah, ha ha."

Okay, seriously? This is what I'm working with? THIS is my dating pool?

I had a whole train ride to go (thankfully only three more stops), so I opened my cell phone to fiddle with my texts and contacts list, anything to show this guy that I was too busy to converse with him. My stop came up and I thankfully was able to avoid speaking with him any longer.

3) I meet my girlfriend's guy friend Friday night. She insists that he likes me. I don't find him that attractive, but he's not bad. Then he opened his mouth.

"How old are you?" he asked me. Isn't there a rule that a guy is not supposed to ask a girl this question?

"29," I said.

"Oh I'm 28."

"Okay," I said.

"So why are you still single?"

"Um," I said, "because I haven't met the right one yet." What other answer did he expect? Because I'm psycho and clingy? Because I have intimacy issues? Because I just finished my 10-year prison sentence and just got out?

"See, it's okay for me to be single and 28, because I'm a guy," he explained, "but you're a girl and you're 29. So it's weird for you to be single."

Okay, seriously? SERIOUSLY? This is what I'm working with? Can you believe that these words actually came out of his mouth? Can you believe that after saying that to me he tried to ask me out the next night and then got miffed when I blew him off? Seriously?

So yeah. That's my report on Bad Opening Lines for now. This report will continue to be updated. It's sad because I don't think any of these guys are actually bad guys or anything. They just need some guidance. I can only hope that by spreading the word, we can stave off this epidemic of Bad Opening Lines.

Until then, this is what I'm working with.