Asian Standard Time

We all know about "Asian time." It basically means "being late."

If something starts at 5 pm, Asian Standard Time (AST) is probably 5:45 to 6 pm. If someone says they are ten minutes from your house, they are probably half an hour from your house.

It's something I've grown to accept from other Asians; and others have grown to accept that about me.

In any event, my fiance is the quintessence, the epitome, the personification of Asian Time.

It is maddening. For example:

Today, he tells me he'll be home around 8. Okay.

So I -- naively believing that he would be home at the time stated, even though every other time proves otherwise -- start the process of cleaning the pots and pans, cooking the brown rice, preparing veggies, and seasoning and heating chicken breasts.

8 pm rolls around and he's nowhere. I eat alone, watch some Hulu, and look at the clock. It's 8:30. At this point, I text him when will he be home. He doesn't respond.

At 8:50, I call him. He doesn't answer.

I call him again. He finally picks up. I ask him when he'll be home. "Yeah, we're all still hanging out," he says. "Maybe around...9:30?"

9:30? 9:30? In AST, that probably translates to 10 am the next morning.

I get annoyed and tell him, "If you weren't going to show up until 9:30, then just TELL me you're not going to show up at 9:30. Don't lie to me and say you're going to come home at 8 pm."

"Okay. Sorry." He then hangs up and proceeds to hang out at the bar he is at.

Now if this happened once or twice, I'd be whatevs about it. But it happens ALL THE TIME! I explicitly asked him to tell me what time he honestly things he'll be home, and if he's late, to give me a heads up. That's it. I don't care if he stays out until 11 pm -- just don't tell me you'll be home at 5 pm and show up at 11 pm. that's all I'm saying.

There's Asian time and then there's rude Asian time. I myself run on Asian time, but at least I text/call and say, "Sorry, I'm going to be fifteen minutes late." He doesn't.

I googled the subject of one's significant other coming home later than the time stated (yes, I googled it) and this woman was complaining on a message board about her husband doing a similar thing. All the other commenters chimed in and agreed. I felt slightly validated. It's not me. And it's not just me.

That's it. Just had to vent.

Hankering interrupted

I was visiting Medium-Sized City in the Midwest and had a hankering for Korean food. One of my friends from law school (non-Asian) was born and raised there, and so I decided to ask her for restaurant recommendations.

"Hey," I asked her, "do you know any good Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City?"

"Hmm," she said, "Korean restaurants?"

"Yeah, Korean restaurants."

"Hmm," she said again. A long pause. "There's a Benihana's."

"Really," I said. "A Benihana's."

"Yeah," she said.

"Benihana's isn't Korean."

"Oh, well, I don't think there are any Korean restaurants."

Something about that conversation bugged me. First, I later learned that there were in fact Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City. She just didn't know (or didn't care to know) about them. Maybe it bugs me that the extent of "exotic food" people will try is the Olive Garden or, if they're particularly adventurous, P.F. Chang's.

Second, a Japanese chain is not an acceptable substitute for Korean food. Maybe all East Asians "look the same" but their cuisine is not.

Yes, I realize my post reeks of coastal snobbery. I know not all Caucasian girls born and raised in a medium-sized city in the Midwest will be completely ignorant of Korean restaurants or find that Korean food and Japanese food are interchangeable. I'm sure there are some who are probably very adventurous and have tried eating bats in Cambodia or marinated raw meat from Ethiopia.

I just haven't met any of them. But maybe I just need to make an effort to find them.

My new favorite "movie"

on lawyers. Tragic yet funny.

The inevitability of familial nagging

I see my life as temporal increments of nagging from my mom, other Yellow relatives, and family friends. Through their Yellow lens, life is not a series of achievements or milestones. It is defined solely by what is deficient and lacking.

When you're single:
How come no boyfriend?
Why are you still single?
What's wrong with you?

When you're in a relationship:
When are you two going to get married?
Has he proposed yet? Why not?
What's wrong with you?

When you're engaged:
How long before marry?
Why is your engagement so long?
What's wrong with you?

When you're married:
When are you going to have your first baby?
How long you wait before having kids?
What's wrong with you?

When you have you first child:
Congratulations - when is the next child coming along?
Have you begun saving for Harvard yet (Yale, safety)?
What's wrong with you?

When you have two children, one boy, one girl, both Harvard-educated:
Your son and daughter married with children yet?
How come you not ask them why not married? They should be married by now.
What's wrong with them?
And what's wrong with you?

So

I'm engaged! It's only been a few weeks since he popped the question. It's pretty exciting stuff, and I'm happy.

We're beginning the wedding planning process which, judging from my few engaged friends who are frantically wedding planning, does not sound like a walk in the park. I acknowledge though that it is probably a rite of passage for those of us who don't want a city hall or Vegas wedding. (Though every bride has told me that at some point during the wedding planning process, she is tempted to elope. Eek.)

So things are, all in all, very very good.

One day last week, however, I get an email from my ex. The same ex whom I haven't spoken to since my last post about his snideness towards me. I told myself I'd never talk to him again because he contributes absolutely nothing positive to my life.

Well, he emailed me, basically asking me what was up and updating me on what was going on with him. For some reason, his email struck me as being pitiable. I kind of felt sorry for him. Like, the guy had to be pretty lonely to be contacting me out of the blue after about a year. And I don't flatter myself, I don't mean in a romantic-longing kind of way. For all I knew, he could still be dating the same girl he was dating when I last spoke with him.

It just struck me as being inexplicably sad.

So, should I respond? Should I ignore? Shouldn't I at least tell him I'm engaged? I thought I should.

So it was a matter of email or phone call. The Naysayer harped on me to call instead of emailing. Yes, it is tacky to tell someone you're engaged via email. But that rule applies to a friend or relative. This Ex is a scornful human being. Did he deserve the same courtesy that a normal decent human being deserved? Particularly if I told myself I'd never talk to him again?

Well, as the Naysayer pointed out, he was at one point a huge part of my life and a potential husband-to-be.

FINE, I decided to call him. And, yes, I got his voicemail. I left the most awkward voicemail ever.

"Hi. This is Yellow. -- um, Yellow Gal. I got your email and I'm returning it. With a phone call, I guess. Um. Yea, I have something I want to tell you. I'm at 555-555-5555. Talk to you soon. Thanks."

Dumb.

He called me back, and finally, I caught him on the phone.

"Well is it good news or bad news?" he said.

"Um, it's good news," I responded. I was inexplicably nervous. "I'm engaged."

"Ah, that's what I guessed," I could hear him fake-smile on the phone. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Is it because you're pregnant?"

"What?"

"You're pregnant, right? That's why you're getting married?"

"Um," I said, trying not to let him get to me, "judging by the fact that we're aiming for a spring 2011 wedding, no, it's not because I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was stifling a derisive laugh or just being incredibly self-deprecating. "It couldn't be...for love?" Then he chuckled awkwardly.

Folks, this man is 38 years old. Thirty-eight years old. He has practiced law for 13 years in a large law firm. And he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year old.

Another gem from our conversation was his question, "How much is the ring?" And, oh yeah, he asked me if I was pregnant another ten or eleven times.

And by the way, he is still dating the same he was dating from last year. So why the snide comments?

Anyway, while the phone call was unpleasant and irritating, I'm ultimately glad I did it. I know now, more than ever, that: (1) I dodged a bullet when I broke up with him, and (2) I am so incredibly lucky and fortunate to be with an awesome guy like my fiancé.

All right.

So it's been ages--yes, AGES--since I've last blogged. I have to say, not much drama going on in my life. I've been at my new job for several months now, and I'm so much happier. I'm no longer practicing law, but am working in a company. So now my role is not so much based on dealing with shit that has already hit the fan (litigation) but rather, preventing the shit from hitting the fan in the first place (compliance). So sort of legal. But not practicing law, exactly.

I'm so much happier.

And I'm still with the same guy. It'll almost be two years in a month. It's weird. Life is strangely drama-free when you're in a normal steady relationship without mind games. I'm not saying we don't have our share of arguments; but I don't feel that anxiety and neurosis I typically feel when I really like a guy. (See past 283,549 blog entries.)

So to the extent anyone is still reading this, I'm doing aight.

Seriously

I called my ex today just to update him on some good news. He was snide and dismissive. I really have no idea as to why I keep in touch with the guy. Is it delusional to think one can be friends with an ex? Obviously we each have moved on - he with his girlfriend, I with my boyfriend. And it's literally been six years since our relationship ended.

I suppose a part of my visceral reaction stems from his ability to get under my skin. He is very sarcastic and snide. Beyond David Spade.

Well, I always say we should cut out people from our lives who add nothing positive to our lives. I've done it before, and I'm more than happy to do it again.

Ok so maybe it was PMS

Because I don't feel obese anymore. Yay.

Not PMS

I feel fat. I know, I know, every girl no matter her weight or waist size will think/say those same words, except maybe Olympic athletes and the starving kids in Africa my mom always talks about.

But yeah. I feel fat. I look down at my thighs and each of them are enormous. Gargantuan. I can literally feel the fat bulging against the inside of my skin. It is a palpable pressure of mass, pressing against my skin, threatening to burst from my body. Sometimes I imagine poking my thigh with a needle, thinking a stream of fat will explode from my thigh.

If only it were that easy.

I feel disgusting and fat. I look in the mirror and see fat. Thighs that curve outward, thighs that touch each other, thighs that humiliate me on a daily basis. Every time I walk in front of someone or stand in an elevator with someone or walk up the stairs, I feel like my thighs and butt and thickness are just huge big signs that say "Fat Girl Walking." I feel like they're looking at me and thinking, "She can't pull off those pants. Chunk."

And there's my belly. Oh, Belly. Muffin Top. Flabby. It is an entity of its own, yet forming an alliance with my thighs to make me feel and look fat.

I run my 3-mile workouts, and it seems futile. I fantasize about taking a scalpel and carving out all the fat, jiggle and wiggle from my body, and leaving nothing but Angela Basset-esque toned athletic slender.

I feel the fat everywhere. On my arms. On my legs. Clinging to my neck, hanging onto my back, pressing against clothes that are threatening to tear at the seams.

ARGH. I feel fat.

Last night's dream

Last night, I dreamt that my father was alive, and my mother had died.

I was in the house I grew up in, and I was looking in all the rooms for my dad. I knew he was somewhere. I looked in the master bedroom, and someone was sleeping there, but it wasn't my dad. It was a relative, I think. I went downstairs to the living room, and saw someone sleeping on the sofa. But again, it wasn't my dad, but another relative. Then I heard my mom's voice calling to me, muffled and distant, but from somewhere in the house. I followed her voice, walked upstairs, and discovered it was coming from my bedroom.

I opened my bedroom door, and there was my mother (presumably her ghost), sitting on the carpet, next to my bed, telling me casually there was my dad. On my bed, my dad was sleeping. I remember looking at his face, and saw that he had this pink plastic-like stubble on his face. They looked like tiny pink transparent flowers.

Then I started freaking out to my mom's ghost. I started bawling and saying how I had so many regrets and how I wished I said and did so many things before she died of her sickness. I was hysterically crying and couldn't get everything out fast enough.

And then...I woke up. After a moment, I realized, it was a dream, and it is my father who has passed; and my mother is still alive.

I'm not sure what it means. Now that I think about it, I wonder if those who were sleeping yet "alive" in my dream represented the dead. My dad's older brother did pass away, as well as my dad's parents and his nephew. I wonder if those sleeping relatives represented those passed relatives.

Very strange.

The perpetual issues of Love and Marriage

I read a haunting article, aptly entitled "Why it’s OK to settle for Mr. Good Enough," written by Lori Gottlieb. It was forwarded to me by my recently single (and thus newly cynical) friend. Basically, the article advises single women to avoid holding out for Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves. Because that man does not exist. And fine, if a woman wants to spend her twenties and thirties looking for that, she's going to find out the hard way that he doesn't exist.

The author identified herself as one of those women who learned the hard way.

She waited for the perfect guy, and met a few great guys who never lived up to the Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves-standard. And now at age 40 with a kid (via sperm donor), she is beginning to realize that her chances of marrying Mr. "Okay" have dwindled, for various reasons including her age:

What I and many women who hold out for true love forget is that we won’t always have the same appeal that we may have had in our 20s and early 30s. Having turned 40, I now have wrinkles, bags under my eyes, and hair in places I didn’t know hair could grow on women.

Really, these are things that single women do not want to hear. Single women want to hear that everyone waits for and eventually finds their True Love and it all works out in The End because that's how the universe works.

Ms. Gottlieb pretty much says this is b.s.

Talk about a cautionary tale. I'm not sure if I 100% agree with this article. It is somewhat inapt in my case given that I am in a long-term relationship; but I know from my past experience and my friends' experiences that Ms. Gottleib articulates some of the fears that single women today harbor, and really hones in on them. Kind of like the elephant in the room. Ms. Gottlieb pretty much takes the elephant out of the corner, shines one or two hundred spotlights on it, and yells through a megaphone, "Here is the elephant. Acknowledge it or die alone."

Not a book review

I just re-read The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The first time I read it was probably fifteen years ago, in high school, undoubtedly assigned to a class in an attempt to edify us about great American literature.

I could only remember two things about the book. First, it was boring. Incredibly, mind-bogglingly boring. And second, it had to do with rich people.

About a year ago, I attended an alumni event with a friend, and there they distributed complimentary copies of the novel. It was lying around one day and so I decided to re-read it for fun. This time around, I totally enjoyed it.

I could see why as a high schooler, I wouldn't be intrigued by or fully understand the book. I think when you're a middle-class to upper middle-class kid in the burbs, you have little idea what it means to be rich in the city, other than that you can wear nice clothes, drive a nice car, and live in a big house. But I think once you grow up and walk among the educated elite in a large city, you really meet people who are rich and who have formed their own ideas on the world and life by virtue of being rich.

There are various scenes in the book where the narrator, Nick, is hanging out with people who talk a lot without really saying anything. These people are rich (obviously) and well-educated. But the things they say are painfully vacuous and ignorant. Their lives are filled with nice homes and nice clothes, but are otherwise empty. I guess not much has changed since 1922.

I admit it is easy for people like me who are not rich to vilify the rich. I think F. Scott had a certain admiration and awe for the wealthy and their materialism; but at the same time a distaste for the vulgarity and ignorance. There was something romantic and yet very sad about the entire story. It really resonated with me.

In sum, I liked it.

I seeee you

Yesterday, a curious thing happened.

I came out of my elevator in my building, and walked into the lobby area. The lobby connects directly to the foyer, which is enclosed in glass and connects to the street exit. Inside the glass foyer, the doorman sits at his desk with his security monitors and ushers visitors and tenants in and out of the building.

As I said, I was walking into the lobby area. The doorman was walking from another area of the lobby and walked toward the foyer. He spotted me also walking toward the foyer. He opened the glass door and entered the foyer. I was one foot behind him. Instead of holding open the door, or even giving it an extra push so it would remain ajar, he let the door shut behind him.

In my face.

Then I opened the door and looked at him over the security desk. But he wasn't there. No, he walked as far into the corner behind the security desk as he could, and cowered in the corner to avoid looking at me.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, my doorman was hiding from me.

Let's summarize: (1) He closed the door in my face, knowing I was right behind him, and (2) he hid from me behind the security desk. I couldn't understand why, when in the past, he had always been nice to me. Also, I had contributed to the Holiday Fund that administered bonuses to the staff during the holidays, so I know it wasn't because I was Scrooge McTenant. So why the Doorman Diss?

Then I figured it out: The man's in love with me. Now bear with me for a second.

Clearly, he freaked out when he saw me - donned in my t-shirt and sweatpants, my hair swept up in a loose bun, my face in its pimpled glory. What was he to do in the presence of such beauty? At that moment, when he saw me, he completely forgot who he was or what he was supposed to do. So he did what any insecure man in love would do: He ran. He decided to run inside the glass foyer and pretend he didn't see anything. But oh no, the hot pimply sweatpants girl was coming this way! What to do? Hide! So, despite the fact that the area behind the security desk was literally 10 square feet, he found the furthest corner of the security area, and cowered. "Hopefully, she didn't see me," he undoubtedly thought to himself.

Oh but I did, Mr. Doorman. I did. And now I know the truth.

Tale of a Second Grade Nothing

The three of stood in line at the elementary school library: a black boy, Tyrone, a white girl, Stacy, and a yellow gal, me. Tyrone turned around toward me and began pulling his eyes sidways and diagonally, saying "ching chong ching chong!" He then burst into laughter at my chinkdom.

Stacy laughed a little. She then saw me standing there unaumused. "Hey, Yellow Gal," she said, "you should say to him, 'At least I'm not black!' "

"Really?" I said.

She said, "Come on! He made fun of you, and you're just gonna take it?!"

"Fine," I said.

Then Stacy tapped on Tyrone's shoulder. He turned around. "Yellow Gal has something to tell you."

"What?" he said glaring at me.

"At least I'm not black," I said.

He then exploded. "Why you gotta talk about my color? Did I talk about your color?"

"No, but you talked about my race--"

"DID I talk about your color?"

"No, but you talked about my race--"

"DID I TALK ABOUT --"

"Excuse me, is there a problem?" A librarian hovered over Tyrone, Stacy and me.

"No," we all said.

"Okay then," she said, and walked away, leaving us alone in silence.

This incident happened more than twenty years ago, and I still remember it pretty clearly. As I reflect upon this memory, I find it fascinating that it is so analogous - or perhaps applicable - to race relations today. "At least I'm not black"? Stacy was basically telling me to say "Yes, it sucks being a chink, but at least I'm not black." And I said it -- accepting my own inferiority but trying to assert some superiority over another race -- all under the lens of one blonde-haired blue-eyed white girl, who remained unscathed throughout this dialogue and division.

Perhaps a more sitcom ending could have been Tyrone responding to my racist statement "At least I'm not black," with "What's wrong with being black?" And I could have said "What's wrong with being Asian?" And then all of a sudden all three of us would get it, and then we'd throw our arms thrown over each other's shoulders, the frame would freeze on that image, and the studio audience would clap and the credits would roll over our faces with the theme music.

I guess life ain't like an 80s sitcom. But, I'd like to think that we're making headway. It is, after all, 2009, not 1986.

L as in label

I just watched the pilot episode of The L Word, which seems to focus on the lives of several lesbian/bisexual professional women in L.A. It was only the pilot, and it was recommended to me by Netflix, due to my Sex & The City fanaticism and my favorable rating of the movie "Saving Face" (a film about a Chinese-American lesbian in NY). I wonder how accurately the show portrays 'real' lesbians. While I found S&tC entertaining, I don't think the majority of single professional women fall neatly into the characters and plot lines of Charlotte, Miranda, Carrie or Samantha. Part of me suspects that The L Word tries to sensationalize lesbians in L.A. the same way S&tC sensationalizes being single and straight in N.Y. Both shows seem to boast a cast of beautiful sexy smart women in a big city, just trying to be happy.

One of the story lines in The L Word focused on one girl, who was a transplant from the Midwest, and then 'discovers' that she is gay. I found it fascinating that a girl didn't know until she was in her twenties that she was gay. After some googling, I realized that there are a number of resources for people who discover later on in life that they're gay. I know it's nearly impossible for me to imagine because I've been straight my entire life. But I can't imagine what it's like to think you're attracted to one gender and only have sex with that one gender, and then later realize well into your twenties that you are attracted to another gender. I can't imagine how difficult it must be, and almost traumatic or shocking to one's identity.

Another interesting characteristic of the show was its lens: its focus on the fact that the characters are Lesbian. In a strange way though, I sort of felt like that by grouping them into this category, it sort of dehumanized them. Yes, they eat food and have sex and like good books and have friends. But the show seemed to reduce them to "Lesbian." When a woman is drinking a cocktail, it is a Lesbian drinking a cocktail. When a woman is reading a book, it is a Lesbian reading a book. I guess while watching it, I couldn't shake that label off.

The only parallels I can personally draw are from being an Asian American (not white) and a female (not male). Does my race or gender define my identity? Or do they only define it insofar as they limit or expand my life experiences? If I see a show with a woman drinking a cocktail, is it a Woman or just a person who happens to be female? I think different Asian American females including myself allow our race and gender define us on a wide and varying spectrum. Some Asian Americans no doubt find their race merely tangential to their identity, while others find it fundamental to their identity.

Anyhow, as a straight girl, I am curious about the gay experience in this day and age - no doubt analogous to the non-Asian in an Asian American history museum who is curious about a different culture. Maybe the show aims to humanize rather than categorize or sensationalize. And perhaps it aspires to enlighten 90% of the population that gays, as humans, are human and thus have the same desires - the need to connect, have good friends, have good sex, and find love.

As a side note, I asked the Boyfriend if he's heard of the show and if so, if he thought it was good. His review of the show: "Hot chicks having hot sex. Awesome show."

Yeah.

Seven and a half miles

This is how much I walked today. No, this isn't a self-administered accolade or solicitation of props. After all, some people walk seven and a half miles to and from work everyday. Some people run thirty miles a day just for kicks. I by no means purport to deem myself the Bomb.

However, it is probably one of my biggest accomplishments today. Which goes to show how the rest of my day went. Or didn't go, rather.

There is a palpable Absence in my life, and I can't quite pinpoint what It is. I feel like there is something more to life than ... This. Sometimes, I wish I could be a mindless droid that finds simple contentment in going to work every day. Or follow my mom's suggestion and start going to church and making myself believe that Jesus is my Savior. Either of these alternatives would give me some purpose, and some source of peace and contentment. But I guess I know myself well enough that I can't well make myself believe or feel something I don't.

I like Monster.com's ad: "Your calling is calling." Does everyone have a calling? Or do only certain people have a calling, while the rest of us waddle in our uncertainty and attachments? Do we make our own calling? Gandhi was who he was not because it came to him, but because he made it happen. Perhaps everyone has a chance to be extraordinary, but only few of us recognize this fact, and even fewer act on it.

So the question, what is one's calling? Gandhi saw an Absence in the world, and decided to do something about it. Admittedly, not everyone will accomplish the same as Gandhi; but contributions are contributions. I wonder what mine is. Or will be.

Tell me something

Even at my present age, an adult of many years, every so often, when I feel a thousand things press upon my chest like a single immovable weight, I just need to hear someone tell me, "It's going to be all right. Don't worry about it. It will all work out."

I just need to hear it. Even though I know there is no reason to believe that it will be all right and everything will work out, I just need to hear someone say it to me. I need to believe that it will work out, because if I don't, I feel like I will die.

Different people in my life have played the It's-All-Right Role in my life. Sometimes it is the Naysayer. Sometimes it is a girlfriend. Sometimes it is the boyfriend at the time. A lot of times though, it is my mother. She is the expert, because she is the Master of Bearing Burdens. I won't list all the things my mom has gone through in her 60 years of life, but let's just say it goes beyond the mere "I've had two papercuts in a row"-bullshit.

Now, if my mom - Master of Bearing Burdens - tells me it's all going to work out, then it's gotta work out. She has told me on numerous occasions that 99% of the things we worry about never end up happening. And even if it does happen, then it works out. So, she reasons, "don't worry." Because, after all, the act of worrying accomplishes absolutely nothing.

Suppressing a lifetime of over-analytical neurosis and a profession whose impulse is to anticipate everything that can possibly go wrong is no easy task. But I will strive nonetheless to be zen. To be chill. And I won't need anyone to tell me anything. Because I'll already know that it will all work out.

Hmm

I've thought a lot about things in the past few weeks. And I think I'm going to do something crazy. Like really crazy.

Stop practicing law.

Start being happy. And do something completely unrelated to the J.D. I earned.

Instead of talking about it and blogging about it, I'm gonna do it.

I think.

Faith

Few things are as humbling as being let go by one's firm; even a firm that was a source of abject misery and reduced one to tears on an almost nightly basis. Very humbling nonetheless. It is particularly humbling when one had no notice, and was let go during one of the worst economic crises one had ever seen in one's adult life. It is even more humbling when one is let go, not because of the economic downturn, but because of a lack of fit.

One feels a distinct vulnerability when such an event occurs. It is tangible; sharp and sweet, like a sugary blade cutting something deep inside. In these moments, one feels like a third person reading one's own story, and writing another person's blog; yet unlike a story or blog, it does not end the moment the book or web browser is closed. It lingers, and reverberates, until the last of its echoes is muted by the Next Big Event in One's Life.

What does one do until the Next Big Event? Dance for joy? Have a pity party? Dance for joy at one's pity party?

At any rate, things always have a way of working out. It's perhaps just a matter of time. And faith.

Further musing

I suppose if every employed citizen were pressed, virtually all of us would say we would be doing something different if we were independently wealthy. Except for those people who are genuinely happy in their jobs.

Blah. All of these musings do nothing to mitigate the reality that I have to go to work today. Blah.

Sunday morning musings

It's Sunday morning. I'm in bed as I type this. And my kitten is sleeping peacefully on my right thigh.

The only thing that mars this Sunday morning is the fact that I have to go to work today. I really don't want to, but I have to.

I think about those women who don't have to work for a living. Before, I was judgmental towards them. Unlike them, I aspired to be an educated woman, a career woman, an independent woman.

Now, I find myself coveting those women's lives. How magnificent would life be if I didn't have to work? If I were independently wealthy? I could just live my life and really enjoy my life. It wouldn't necessarily mean vegging every day (though that sounds pretty nice). I could write the Novel, i.e., the novel that every working stiff wished he/she but doesn't because of lack of inspiration, time and/or energy. I could travel to India or Egypt or New Zealand. I could work for a non-profit in the city, and feel like I'm doing something, rather than working for a firm that redistributes money between two parties. We're all going to die one day. And on that day, what will we have to show for it?

Man, I really don't want to go to work today.

A little vent

I'm annoyed. Really, one of the most annoying things about life is when someone makes an offhand, unfair remark at you -- whether it be a flat-out insult or criticism -- and you have no comeback and you stand there like an idiot. Then, hours later, the logical, obvious comeback response comes to you. And you get mad because (1) that person got away with the remark, and (2) you had the perfect response.

Classic example:

Boss says to me: "You're a moron. All I did was ask you to add 1 + 1. Why is that so hard?

Classic Yellow Gal response: "Duh..."

What Yellow Gal should have said: "You didn't ask me to add 1 + 1. You asked me to multiply 935,049 by 934,435, square it, find the derivative of it, perform a logarithmic analysis, and make the final figure do a triple-axel ending with an inverted toe-touch."

Another "example":

Boss says: "You're a moron. It's taking you 10 days to finish this project. It took So-and-so 2 days."

Yellow Gal response: "Duh..."

What Yellow Gal should have said: "So-and-so analyzed a simple issue pertaining to one page of evidence. I have had to analyze 50,000 pages of evidence and analyze fifteen different issues. It's going to take a little bit longer than 2 days. Ass."

But no, I just stood there, thinking, "Duh..." and having that "Duh..." look on my face, and allowing my boss to think that I am a moron.

I know, I know -- If everyone got riled up over every unfair characterization in the history of mankind, then we'd never leave the house and still be banging rocks to make fire. I get it.

Still though. It's annoying.

The unknown

Once upon a time, there was a red apple. It didn't remember coming to be, it just always remembered being a red apple. The red apple was in a narrow plastic canal, and moving steadily forward. Behind the red apple were other apples, green, golden and other reds. In front of the red apple were more apples. The apple looked to the side and saw parallel rows of apples, all moving in a single file down their respective canals, all moving forward in more or less the same pace.

"Where are we all going?" the red apple asked the apple in front of it.

"We're all just going," the apple in front replied.

"But where?"

"That direction," the front apple said as it nodded forward.

The red apple strained its stem to survey the room. And for what seemed for miles and miles were similarly constructed canals filled with a single row of apples, all moving in the same direction. Then the red apple looked over the edge of the canal.

"Don't look there!" the apple behind barked.

"Why not?" the red apple asked.

"It is the Unknown. Some apples have fallen down there."

"And what happened?" the red apple asked.

"We don't know. That's why it's called the Unknown."

"But we don't even know where this row is taking us."

"No, we know. We're moving in that direction. This is a canal for apples. We are apples. All the apples roll down this canal. This is our purpose."

"If that's not circular reasoning, I don't know what is," the red apple said. "I know we're rolling in that direction. But why?"

"You ask too many questions. Just roll with it."

The red apple complied and rolled with it. Rolled and rolled. The canal never meandered. The scenery never changed. It went on and on. Then one day, the red apple heard a juice-curdling scream.

The apples gasped and turned to the apple that emitted the scream. It was a green apple, and its stem was shivering and it had stopped its row from moving forward.

"I can't take it anymore," the green apple said. "I'm getting out."

Everyone gasped. "No no, that is not the way!"

"I'm getting out," the green apple repeated, and slowly started rocking itself over the edge of the canal.

"No you mustn't! You mustn't go into the Unknown!" the apples cried in unison. The red apple looked over the edge of the canal and could not see anything. There was no darkness, there was no light, there were no colors. It just seemed to be absolutely nothing, yet infinite at the same time.

The green apple rocked itself with enough momentum to slowly yet deliberately careen over the canal's edge. As it fell over the edge, it looked at the red apple, before plunging down into the Unknown.

The apples screamed in horror as the green apple fell.

The apple behind the red apple shook its stem. "Poor sucker."

"Does it die?" the red apple asked.

"We don't know."

"Then why the hell is everyone so horrified by this so-called 'Unknown'?" the red apple demanded.

"Because it's Unknown."

"Fug this," the red apple said. It too started rocking from side to side. "What are you doing?" the apple behind asked.

"I'm getting out too. Who wants to roll in this canal another eternity? I want to check out the Unknown."

"No!" the surrounding apples protested. The red apple rocked and rocked until it had enough momentum to teeter over the edge of its canal. A bolt of fear went through its core as it peered over the edge. This really was the Unknown. Who knows what would happen to the red apple once it fell? Would it regret this plunge? It did have a choice, stay or go. It didn't know.

"Fug it," it said, and went off the edge.

And the red apple fell. The screams of the other apples soon dissipated. Suddenly it felt warmer, and before the red apple could gather where in the heck it was, it landed on something.

"Oof," the red apple said. "I think I bruised myself."

"You sure did." The red apple gasped and looked around. "It's you."

The green apple nodded. "I knew you were next."

"But where are we?"

"I just got here, I have no idea," the green apple replied. "But this is the Unknown. And we're not dead."

"So where have all the other apples who went to the Unknown go?"

"Dunno," the green apple replied. "I guess we'll find out."

Special apologies to Mrs. F

Last night, I dreamt I married Brett Favre.

Brett Favre, former quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.

Brett Favre, current quarterback of the New York Jets

Brett Favre, 38 years old, married, with kids.

What the heck?! Why Brett Favre? Why not Brad Pitt? Or Tom Brady for that matter?

The dream was very strange. I was preparing to get married. Things were behind schedule and everyone was rushing to get ready for the wedding. In my dream, I was not in love with Mr. Favre. And for that matter, it didn't seem that he was so much in love with me. We were somehow getting married though.

I remember the dress was strapless, a cream-colored off-white dress that had a stiff fabric for the top part, and a billowy bottom part. I was frantically looking for shoes in my house (not my condo, but my home where I grew up). I found a pair of silver shoes that were clearly my mom's -- strappy sandals, very 1990's style, and not so stylish. I started looking for these other silvery shoes that I had for another wedding.

Rush rush rush. There was something inside of me that felt like this was all too rushed, that I shouldn't be pressured into marrying a guy I wasn't in love with. Maybe I could call off the wedding and back out. But I just said, fug it, get married.

All throughout these events, I saw my ex-boyfriend lingering in the background. Walking through a room while I was getting ready. Hanging around the wedding party. Not talking to anyone really, and not talking to me.

The strangest thing of all of this -- if it could get any stranger -- was that my boyfriend (my PRESENT boyfriend) was nowhere to be seen. Completely absent. Literally nonexistent.

Then I woke up. What the F was that about? It was so realistic. And so eerie.

I don't have a crush on Favre. I know he's one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time, and he never struck me as one of those cocky, arrogant NFL players who mug for the camera or talk smack about teammates. Seems like a genuinely nice, down-to-earth guy who treats his momma well. I think he's attractive for a quarterback (but most quarterbacks are rather handsome, aren't they?). But I never swooned at the sight of him throwing the ball in the air.

Moreover, I like the dorky awkward types, not the rugged athletic types. What the heck? What does it mean?

Dreams are weird.

It's Sunday night

And you know what that means. The same sentences repeat in my head again and again: "I so don't want to go to work. I so don't want to go to work. But I have to."

I won't discount the importance of having a job, much less a modest salary, in this economy, especially with my extravagant lifestyle of Starbucks coffees and kabobs from the Middle Eastern take-out stand.

I'm starting to think that being happy isn't dwelling on what you don't have, but on what you do have, and what you could have, if you work for it.

(That sounds about right, right?)

Samo Samo

Again, I haven't blogged in a while. The reason for this is simple: Nothing is going on with me. Nothing good. Nothing (new) bad. Just the same ol' ish. Every. Day.

The same question lingers. I don't know what the next 'phase' of my life is. Nothing is really propelling me towards anything. Nothing is really inspiring me. Everyday is Groundhog's Day.

So when inspiration doesn't find you, you should find it, right? I've talked to a lot of lawyers in different fields and in different stages of their careers. I've talked to legal recruiters as well. Most, if not all, lawyers are unhappy.

What other options are there? Teacher? Consultant? Sketch artist? What?

The other day, I was talking to my galfriend about this existential yuppie funk. We wondered if other girls our age in similar stages of their careers were going through the same phase. We then figured, a lot of girls our age are married with kids. And, apparently, marriage and kids can take a lot of time away from ...well, complaining about how there's nothing going on.

As my mom likes to remind me, I'm 30 years old now, and it'll be another 5 years before my eggs start drying up and my chances of bearing a child with Down Syndrome doubles every year after 35. "You must get married," she insists, "you must have children. Otherwise, you will live and die alone."

Okay.

I do eventually want to get married and have kids. But just not now. I am so not ready. Hell, I still am a kid! I don't have time to vacuum my bedroom and I overboil my pasta sometimes--I can't even take care of myself, how could I ever have take care of a kid?!

Looking at all my peers, a number of whom are married with children, I can't help but suspect that maybe I'm ... behind the ball? I realize it's probably social convention that makes me feel this way. But I have to concede that, medically speaking, my chances of having a healthy child starts decreasing after the age of 35 and continues into my 40s. And, feeling lethargic at this age already, I know I won't have the energy to raise a young feisty toddler in my forties. (Mad props to the moms out there who do it -- they're so much more resilient than I am.)

So I'm hoping that I'll "figure it out when the time comes," and everything, in the next few years or so, will somehow fall into place. Right? Right.

It's funny. Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." I'm not making other plans. So maybe this is why I'm not feeling alive.

Man I need a hobby.

Incidentally

Or COincidentally

My mom calls me not long after my previous post. She explains to me a bad situation her friend is in, and what, in my legal opinion, her friend should do. My legal gut told me several things, and as I'm on the phone with her, I start doing some quick research on the net and give her a preliminary answer.

Basically, I told my mom, her friend should be okay.

After talking to her for about half an hour, she said "Thank you. I'll tell my friend."

Then she added, "After your dad passed away, I feel so much more secure knowing that you're a lawyer."

"Oh," I said, not really knowing how to respond.

"I have taken on some of dad's financial matters after he passed away," she said, "and these guys think they can pull one on me because they think I'm an unsophisticated, immigrant, Yellow widow. But when I tell them my daughter is a lawyer, they back off."

I half-laughed. "Seriously? Just like that?"

"I don't just say it in the beginning. But when I suspect they're up to something, I tell them, 'I know what you're trying to do, and I know that's not right. I know this, because my daughter is a lawyer.' Then they look at me and say, 'Your daughter is a l-l-lll-lawyer??' and I say 'Yes.' Then they back off."

"How funny."

She continued, "So I am grateful that you are a lawyer. And I'm proud of you."

"Oh," I said, again not really knowing how to respond.

So in that brief moment -- when my mom's friend was in a fix and I figured out a quick legal answer to her problem; and my mother dropped the L-bomb on my dad's former business associates and they stopped trying to pull a fast one on her -- I did feel a spark of something. Purpose? Usefulness? A feeling that I'm helping someone deserving?

I don't know. It was small...but it was something.

Good times

Think of the starving people.

In Africa.

In Asia.

In America.

There are lots of starving people. There is a lot of suffering in this world. Yet for some reason, this mantra that I am told to repeat to myself to make myself a more grateful, happier person ... doesn't quite work.

I've been in a funk for a long time. And I can't quite pinpoint why. I have a respectable job. A nice condo. A great boyfriend. And great friends. So I should be happy. I should be happy.

But I feel incredibly unmotivated. And it's not something that goes away or dissipates. I mean, sure, when I buy a new dress or see a funny movie, I'm temporarily perked up. But in the end, I end up feeling so blase. This is beginning to affect specific aspects of my life. Such as work.

I thought maybe it was the job, and that was the source of my ennui, and so I should just change it. But a recent talk with my supervisor showed me otherwise.

My supervisor approached me about a recent project I did for him, and his vast disappointment in its quality. "I know you're not retarded. I know you're bright. So why are you giving me work that looks like it's been drafted by a retard?"

I didn't have an answer.

He continued, "I get the feeling that you just don't care about the cases. You aren't vested in the things we do here. And I thought when we hired you, you wanted to do the cases we do. But when I see your work product, it seems like you have no interest, no concern for the case, and thus you don't put in the effort. What the f?"

What the f indeed. Amidst his litany of complaints about my work and my attitude and my undeserved salary, there was a grain of truth: I didn't really care. And that's why I didn't do my best. And that's why the work product was less than what I could have done. I know I am capable of more. But I just don't feel like exerting the effort towards something I don't care about.

It's like this: There is a tree. And the highest apple on this tree is the sweetest, juiciest, largest apple. But the closer apple, while not as sweet, juicy or large, is edible and fine. At this juncture in my life, I'm content with the edible, fine apple. I know I can get the highest apple on the tree. But why bother when I'm okay with the closer apple?

I confess this is not the best work ethic, certainly not the work ethic of my parents.

There is a certain guilt in my complacency, other than any guilt resulting from the starving people on this planet. As I've said before, I know that my immigrant parents suffered a lot to survive in this country. They did it all so my brother and I could have all the opportunities this country affords. I went to college, I went to law school and I have a solid job. There is that voice inside of me that tells me I am squandering their efforts and all of this opportunity they created for me, because of my complacency.

I know I can be more than what I am. But there is no driving force in my life that propels me towards that.

I am not, and never will be, one of those A-type gunners. The ones who have to be #1. The ones who sit at the front of every class and raise their hand for every question and read ahead so they can be the best. The BEST.

The idea of being a gunner is repellent to me.

What other motivators are there? Power? No interest. Money? I already know that's not the answer to happiness. So what is it?

Right now, it feels like the answer is "nothing." Absolutely nothing. That's why getting out of bed every morning feels like pulling off a band aid every time. That's why I occasionally do subpar work. I feel constantly disconnected from everything in my life, and it's filled with temporary pleasures like hanging with the boyf or friends. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking down the street and it's not me that's walking, but someone else.

I just want something, someone, to pinpoint what the f is going on. I want a purpose, a goal, SOMETHING, that will awaken me from this funk-adelic slumber from my life, so I don't waste all my formative years feeling so blase and so useless.

This all sounds pretty depressing. But I'm not depressed (at least I don't think so). I think I'm just feeling ... disconnected. From life.

Spare change

A lot of people fear change. I think the biggest thing people fear about change is the pessimistic notion that things could always be worse.

The Pessimist reasons: What if you dump your sig other in hopes of finding someone better, and you don't? What if you end up with someone worse? Or you die alone with nothing but regret? What if you changed your job? Your career? The city you live in? The friends you have? You could always end up somewhere more miserable or with people who are more unpleasant.

There is some dysfunctional comfort in living in the familiar, even if it is replete with unhappiness. We keep the toxic friends we have because at least when they flake out on us or disappoint us, it's expected, it's familiar. We stay with our boyfriends or jobs because, while they do have their flaws, they're known flaws, flaws that we've been able to deal with. And, we reason, it's easier to deal with the known than the unknown.

It's this dysfunctional thinking -- this fear, I should say -- that paralyzes us from making a change. And when I say "us" I mean me. The Pessimist's reason does resonate: It could always be worse.

I wonder what usually is the precise moment that crystallizes for us the need for change. Usually, and unfortunately, it's something violent or traumatic. For example, a woman realizes she needs to leave her husband after he hit her. Or an employee realizes he needs to leave after his boss calls him a chink. Does it always have to come to that breaking point? How can we come to that epiphany of change sooner?

It's difficult because the flip side says life is always hard, no job/significant other/friend is perfect, and life is about compromise. If you're searching for something or someone perfect, you'll always be searching. How unhappy does one have to quantitatively be before she decides to change?

I guess everyone has a different standard. In cultures that condone wife-beating, it probably takes an attempted murder to motivate a woman to leave her husband. Or, as in my case, when someone is raised by parents who suffered a lot to just put food on the table and a roof over their heads, it probably takes a horridly abusive work environment to motivate a gal to leave her cushy job.

I suppose the fact that one thinks about it a lot is an answer in itself. And perhaps that's my answer.

A nice thing about change, to which the Pessimist has no retort, is that you're in control. You decide what you want, and the actions you need to take to get there. It is exciting and, most importantly, liberating. And who knows. With some spare change, you may end up with something better. And be happier.

Girls talk.

I think one thing that escapes a great number of men is the fact that girls talk. Guys think that they'll never be discovered, yet they fail to fathom the depth and extent of a girl's ability to gossip.

I have two illustrations:

1. I have two sets of girlfriends. They are connected through me. Both sets of girlfriends were recently introduced to a (single) guy. Not too surprisingly, he started "getting to know" two different girls -- one from each of my sets of girlfriends. Let's call one girl from one set of girlfriends "Girl A", and the other girl from the other set of girlfriends, "Girl B." He's been chatting and hanging out with both Girl A and Girl B, while keeping it a secret from the other girl. I was particularly annoyed by this, because (1) he never told me about it and I heard about it through mutual friends, and (2) dating two girls from connected circles of friends can jeopardize the circles of friends.

Then one day, he made plans with Girl A on Saturday. They had been planning this for a few weeks now. When Girl A contacted him on Thursday to figure out time/place, he replied tersely, "Oh, sorry, I made other plans. Sorry." Just like that. Canceled on her without any real explanation.

Then I'm talking to Girl B, and she's telling me about her upcoming weekend. Then she happens to mention that she and the guy are going out on Saturday.

What a moron. Did he really think he could get away with canceling on Girl A and going out with Girl B without anyone finding out? I was told not to tell Girl B about his canceling on Girl A (Girl A was pretty embarrassed by the truth -- who wouldn't?). But I know. And Girl A knows. And another friend knows.

Moron.

2. There is a guy friend that I know. While I think he can be a fun guy to hang out with, I would never date him. I also know he would never date me. Still though, he does occasionally semi-flirt with me. One particular time, he jokingly "bragged" about his "size" and how "big" he was.

I had to laugh. LITTLE DID HE KNOW that TWO DIFFERENT GIRLS -- who are complete strangers to each other but both friends with me -- both told me that he was small. Tiny. (Okay I admit it's pretty mean to blog about this, and even if he or either of the girls found and read this entry, they wouldn't have any idea I was blogging about them.) It took every ounce of self-restraint to hold back my laughter and resist saying "That's not what I heard from ___ and ___, Millimeter-Man."

See? I'm so mature. So restrained and mature.

So guys, be careful. Girls talk. A lot.

Alas

It's another sunny day, and I wish I could feel content. If only there were a button I could push, tiny liquid I could inject, that could somehow magically alter my perception to that of perpetual optimism...I'd go for it.

Though I do remember reading an article a while ago about how people take anti-depressants just to "cheer up" when they're feeling bummed. They're not even depressed! They just use it recreationally! And doctors prescribe it for this use! I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, given that so many professionals are functioning alcoholics and/or drug-users.

Ah, the things we do to escape.

So it's been a while.

I've been a bad blogger. i.e., a non-blogger. And it's not that stuff isn't going on. Stuff is going on. I just ... didn't feel inspired to blog about it. Because it was the same shit, different day-type of deal.

I think I've whined, on more than one occasion, about my job as an attorney. And in the last few months or so, I've wondered if maybe this is the right career for me. I handle stress very poorly. If something has screwed up, or is in jeopardy of being screwed up, or may or may not be screwed up, I experience what I believe to be a panic-attack. A palpable pit forms in my stomach and I can't breathe or think normally because the world's about to end. (It never does. Not yet anyways.)

Not to mention the chewing out by my superiors. I can understand their predicament--they hire a peon to make their lives easier and instead of easing their burdens, this peon makes mistakes, asks questions, and does things so slowly. It'd be frustrating. And so when something goes awry or not exactly the way they'd do it, a head is bitten off, usually mine.

Which brings me to several questions:

Am I cut out to be a lawyer? Am I just too goddamn weak, sensitive, anxious to be in this high-intensity profession?

Or is it the firm? My co-workers? Should I just change firms?

Or is it the practice area? Should I change areas?

Or is it the law in general?

Then I wonder, is anyone ever really happy in their job? Or is some agony an indispensable aspect of having a career? Am I being a quitter because I want to leave a job that makes me miserable? Shouldn't I be facing and overcoming adversity, rather than running away from it? Then again, doesn't everyone have a right to be happy? Isn't life too short to spend several years proving your worth to some judgmental voice in your head that says 'no pain, no gain'?

Then I wonder, am I being too picky? There are thousands of people out there who are unemployed, who would give anything to have the job I have, let alone any job. So am I being one of those self-entitled brats who had delusions about what it meant to be a yuppie? As my mom likes to remind me, there are people who have survived concentration camps and child molestation. I don't have it so rough, she says. And truth be told, the job's not all bad, I like the substance of the work that I do, the intellectual exercise of the law -- just not the stress and ego-smashing that accompanies it.

I've contemplated seeing a career counselor about this. Or maybe reading a good career book. I'm not really sure. The only things I know are that (1) I want to be happy, and (2) I'm not happy.

One game of poker

Ever since I was a child, I knew that there was a teeny tiny part of me that had a certain disposition that one of my uncles had. I don't really see it in any of my other relatives except him. It's something I don't admire at all, in fact, it's something I've grown to dislike.

It's a competitive side.

I don't know if it's a Yellow thing or just a human thing. From what I can remember, my uncle had a very particular attitude. He had to be number one. He had to be better than everyone and outperform everyone (including my dad, his brother). He liked to call my dad once in a while and taunt my dad with the grades his sons got over me or my brother, or brag about the schools his sons got into -- all for the sole purpose of rubbing it in. And any time he (or either of his sons) fell short of number one, he would get enraged. Almost violently enraged.

I really didn't like that about him.

Yet as I grew up, I realized a tiny part of him was in me. During certain games or certain events, I would sometimes lose. And it would hit a nerve. And then I'd get angry. Really angry. Really pissy and angry. I typified the sore sore loser. And then I'd want to get back at my opponent again. And if/when that opponent beat me again, I'd have a temper tantrum and be sulky for the next day or two.

It just didn't seem like a healthy way to be. So over the years, I've learned to quell that competitive tick. I managed to tuck this part of me away in the farthest part of the lowest drawer of a locked cabinet that is in the back of my closet behind the skeletons. So when I lose a game or even get my ass whooped, I'd laugh it off and say "good game, good game." I'd be a good sport. Once in a while, a small thing will set it off. But for the most part, I have it under lock and key and in control.

Until last night.

Yesterday the boyf and I had a nice little bbq in his friends' backyard. We had chips and picante salsa, burgers, hot dogs, and grilled chicken. We drank wine and beer and chatted about the weather, politics, the news, television, anything. It was fun.

Then one of the guys said "Okay I'm setting up the poker table! Who's in?" A few guys raised their beers. I looked at the boyf who had his "It's on"-game face.

I remembered how, on our way to the bbq, the boyf told me they might play poker. It was at that point I decided to tell him about my Competitive Side. I assured him I'm usually laid back about stuff. But every once in a while, something will hit a nerve and I'll revert into an unreasonably pissy and angry sore loser. "At that point," I warned him, "just lay off. Don't egg it on. Because I get seriously pissed. Seriously."

"Oh okay," he said as he pulled into the driveway.

Back to the present -- we're sitting at our poker game. Each of us has a stack of chips in front of us representing $20. And we start playing. I get shitty cards all night. A 2 of hearts and a 4 of clubs. A 3 of diamonds and a 7 of spades. I'm slightly annoyed but whatevs. It's just a game. My chips dwindle away from the blinds. I'm pretty conservative and I won't bluff unless I feel like I have a modest hand. Which I don't.

So one game, when I was dealt two queens, I felt like it was my time to win. I decided to wait until later in the game to bet seriously, thinking I had it. Then I get beaten by a flush. When I showed my cards, everyone moaned. "You should have gone all in in the beginning." The guy who won (my boyf's Best Bud incidentally) remarks to me, "Yeah, it really doesn't make sense for you to bet like that when you had pocket queens," as he's taking away my chips and adding them to his mountain of chips. "You're just going to lose," he added with a smile and a shrug.

The cabinet in the back of the closet began to rumble. But I keep it shut.

"Wow Yellow Gal, your chips look really low! You've lost a lot, huh?" a passerby said.

I remained silent. The boyf was next to me, being ever so observant, fully warned, and obedient, remained silent.

In the next several hands, my chips continue to dwindle from the blinds. Then I am dealt a king and an ace. I go all in. Two other guys call and raise. The dealer then deals three cards on the table: an ace, a king, and a jack. The betting begins. Best Bud ends up with ( you guessed it) a queen and a ten. He again, along with several onlookers, begins to give me unsolicited advice about my poker playing, my betting strategy (or lack thereof) and how I should have predicted X, Y and Z and my failure to do so resulted in losing all my chips.

This was my first time playing poker. So instead of gladly accepting all of this wonderful advice, I said, "Wow, most of what you said is over my head, but thanks anyway."

I watched in silence as my boyf, his Best Bud, and another gentleman played on. Best Bud's girlfriend remarked, "Wow, you guys analyze the game so much." Best Bud remarked, "Well, it's precisely because we analyze the game that we're the only ones here playing with everyone else's money." The girlfriend laughed and slapped his shoulder. "That was so mean!"

"What," he said, looking around the table, "it's true isn't it? Am I wrong?"

I suddenly remembered all those old cheesy western films where in some dusty saloon in the wild west, a couple cowboys are in a game of poker, when one cowboy reveals his hand of four aces and gleefully pockets the cash and change into his sack. The loser then gets bent out of shape and flips over the table and aims his gun at the winner's forehead. It seemed like such an overreaction at the time. Who gets that pissed over a game of poker?

The answer was me. I was stunned by Best Bud's cocky comment. And livid. And as he mused over his mountain of earnings, the tiny piece inside of me that was tucked inside the bottom drawer of the locked cabinet had escaped by now and was rampaging around the closet, but I kept the closet door firmly shut and my face stoic.

We decided to cash in our earnings at a certain point and call it a night. My boyf managed to win back my earnings plus his, so together, we broke even. Still, as we walked to my boyf's car, I said, "Can you beat Best Bud next time and take away all of his money?"

Boyf replied, "Hmm, he pissed you off, didn't he?"

"Uh huh," I said as I got into his car.

On the way home, I stewed in silence, feeling the rage pour up from my stomach, through my chest, into my throat and, irritatingly, up to my eyes.

Sniffle.

"Aw Yellow Gal," the boyf said. "Is this what you warned me about?"

"DON'T worry. I warned you, this is my pissy side. It'll go away."

The boyf said, "Okay, we shouldn't play poker anymore."

"No," I said. I knew it was my first time playing with real money, and that the boyf's friends probably have been playing it for years and years, but a part of me, the competitive side, wanted to learn the game, master it, and stick it to Best Bud and laugh at him as I buy myself a pair of shoes with the money he donated to me.

So PETTY, I yelled at myself, You're letting the terrorists win. You're letting Best Bud under your skin. You're letting him get the best of you.

Then the thing that was bursting out of the closet said, He will so rue the day he lectured you on poker.

So yes, the pissy DNA strand that I share with my uncle is alive and kicking. I'm not sure whether I should relent to it and let it drive me to kick the ass of and humiliate Best Bud. Or get over it and take the high road.

Needless to say, I'm still pissed!

Conversations with an Asian Parent

Conversation 1:

Asian kid: "Look I got an A on my test!"

Asian parent: "Did you get a 100%?"

Asian kid: "No...a 97%."

Asian parent: "What did you get wrong?"

Asian kid: "A couple questions on--"

Asian parent: "I thought you said you studied."

Asian kid: "I did!"

Asian parent: "If you studied, you would have gotten a 100%. You didn't. You didn't study hard enough."

Asian kid: "I did study hard..."

Asian parent: "How many other people got A's?"

Asian kid: "I don't know..."

Asian parent: "So maybe everyone got a 100% and you got a 97%?"

Asian kid: "I don't know..."

Asian parent: " 'I don't know'? 'I don't know' is why you got 97%, not 100%. Study more next time."
______________________________

Conversation 2:

Asian kid: "Hey I learned Rachmanonov's Piano Concerto No. 3!"

Asian parent: "How old are you? 12 now? Jenny Lee learned that when she was 10."

Asian kid: "It's really hard..."

Asian kid: "Well, if you were smarter or worked harder, you would have learned it before Jenny Lee. You must either be dumber or lazier. Study more next time."

______________________________

Conversation 3:

Asian kid: "Hey I got into Harvard!"

Asian parent: "And?"

Asian kid: "And...I got in! I'm so excited!"

Asian parent: "No scholarship?"

Asian kid: "No..."

Asian parent: "Hm, you didn't study enough."

Asian kid: "But...it's...Harvard."

Asian parent: "If you studied harder, you would have gotten scholarship."

Asian kid: "I was valedictorian of my class--"

Asian parent: "Study more next time."
______________________________

Some stereotypes have a ring of truth to them.

How about a non-reunion

I recently saw an ad from Reunion.com. Its slogan was: "Find Everyone from Your Past."

My gut reaction was: "Let's not."

I admit, I'm not a perfect person. And I haven't always made the best decisions, whether it comes to money, work, friends, or guys.

Okay what I'm really saying in a very roundabout way is that I've done some bad things in my life to other people, things I'm not proud of, things that I haven't really forgiven myself for. Once in a while, when my self-imposed amnesia buckles, I remember some of the individuals I haven't been the nicest to, and I feel a sense of dread in my stomach. I'm not sure if it's the guilt. Or the feeling of knowing that someone out there dislikes me, if not hates me.

Not that I flatter myself. I mean, people have dissed me, and I don't spend every waking second ruing the day I met them. But if I bumped into some of those people, some of those old feelings would certainly resurface, and I wouldn't exactly be very receptive to them.

The point of all this is that, in a month, I -- along with some friends and the Boyf -- will be visiting one of the cities I used to live in several years ago to attend an event.

My Boyf is not privy to the events of my past, specifically, the things I've done wrong. So it makes me slightly uncomfortable to know that I will be visiting this city with my Boyf, and run the risk of bumping into people who wouldn't exactly be receptive to me.

The Naysayer says I'm being paranoid. And yes, I am. But I guess it goes beyond just literally bumping into them. I guess one could say that I'm a bit haunted by my past. That I still haven't reconciled myself with my mistakes. I kind of just hope that after X years go by, the memories will be so distant that they'll all seem fuzzy, trivial, and trifling, relegated to the memories of playground fights or forgotten homework assignments.

Anyway, a reunion is the exact opposite of what I want on little my trip. I don't want to find anyone from my past. In fact, I would much prefer that I lose them. And my memories of them.

Human contact = Good

I just realized that, for over 36 hours, I haven't had any human contact with anyone outside of work or the Subway sandwich store. I was supposed to have lunch with a friend today, but she had to reschedule. I've been working late every night so I haven't been able to see friends or the boyf after work.

The reason I realized this suddenly was that I felt starkly disconnected. And irritable. And every comment or remark from work people just grated on my nerves a little more than it should.

How do the hermits do it?

While my furry pet at home is fully huggable and loveable, she still isn't a human I can connect with and banter with. (At least not yet).

So I called the boyf and made a "human-contact-call" -- versus a "booty call" -- just so I can talk to someone for twenty minutes who is not my boss or the Subway sandwich-maker-guy.

Like I said, how do the hermits do it?!

Mantras

Focus on the things that matter.

Focus on the people who matter.

Do not focus on the things that do not matter.

Do not focus on the people who do not matter.

The rude receptionist who copped an attitude at you for no good reason, the long line at Walgreen's, the boss who likes to make snide remarks at you just to put you down, and the luke-warm coffee you just purchased all fall under the category of things and people who do not matter.

Your best friend who will be there no matter what happens, your cuddly face-licking dog, your favorite novel, and your unfailing mom all fall under the category of things and people who do matter.

These are the mantas I tell myself. These are the mantras I remind myself. Otherwise I risk forgetting what's important and dwelling instead on the things that aren't.

HRC

This picture of Hillary Rodham Clinton on CNN.com kind of looks like my mom:

Obviously, the Caucasian version of my mom. It's kind of weird. I mean they have a similar facial structure, the same hairstyle and that same older-lady-laughing expression when they're laughing. They're also about the same age.

It almost makes me feel a bit more sympathetic towards her given that everyone is bashing her nowadays.

Weird!

I've got three words

And it's an alliteration: Bitter Blue Balls.

Read below post I found on craigslist.

---

"What Happened to All the Nice Guys?"

Date: 2007-11-19, 3:52AM PST


I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

If you were five years younger.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.

Sincerely,

A Recovering Nice Guy

---

Seriously? Okay, it's definitely sad when you like someone and someone doesn't like you back. Hello -- story of my life. It's a painful lesson we begin learning at age 12 and have repeatedly reinforced until the day we get hitched or die, which ever comes sooner. But seriously, this dude needs to get over it. His rant is dripping with bitterness and resentment, and instead of empowering him, his "I told you so"-rant makes him sound even more pathetic and insecure.

And seriously, a girl can't be friends with a guy and have emotional intimacy with him unless she "reciprocat[es], in kind, with physical intimacy"? What the f kind of bullshit is that? That basically translates to "You can't be friends with me unless you put out."

And, um, I find it hard to believe that a girl who had zero romantic interest in the guy but liked to shop and watch movies with him actually "laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion." Quite frankly, a girl wouldn't care to deign that much effort into "laughing" and "resenting" a guy she has zero interest in. But hey, if that's what this dude needs to tell himself to fuel his rage and get through day, then to each his own.

All I'm saying is, the dude needs to get a grip. At least on something other than what he evidently grips every Friday and Saturday night alone in his studio apartment.

. . .

P.S. - I like nice guys. I'm dating one. As people can read in my past posts, I've been dicked over by a number of lame-ass, socially retarded assholes. So I'm glad to be in a relationship with a guy who calls me regularly, opens the door for me, buys me roses, etc.

This post is not an indictment of nice guys. It is an indictment of guys with bitter blue balls.

I am an idiot.

I found this article entitled, How Much Will Your Baby Be Like You? The first page of the article discussed how your baby could inherit you or your spouse's physical traits (like a cleft chin) or personality traits (like a hot temper). Once I read the first page, I emailed it to my co-worker who just had a baby girl a month ago and is on maternity leave now. I called it a "cute article" and told her how it reminded me of her and her hubby.

Once I emailed it, I clicked on to read the second page, where it talked about inherited health problems. My heart dropped. I remember vividly how my co-worker's husband had just overcome an extensive battle with lung cancer. He almost died from the chemotherapy.

So, basically, by sending the article to her and saying it reminded me of her and her husband, I was telling her that her baby girl was going to get cancer. I am such an IDIOT.

No mercy

There was a game that I used to play when I was a child. It was called "Mercy." The rules were simple: one individual faced her opponent, and interlaced both her left and right hands with the other individual's right and left hands, respectively. Then someone said "Start!" Immediately, the two individuals gripped, twisted, and bent the other's fingers, wrists and/or hand back until one individual was in so much pain and agony that she had no choice but to yell "Mercy!" At that moment, the victor would release his victim's hands.

I never won this game.

Maybe it was because I always played boys or older girls. Or maybe it was because I was a weakling. Okay it probably was because I was a weakling. But the case remained: I never won.

So I can't help but liken the game to life. Not in terms of winning or losing. But being able to say "Mercy!" when the moment arises. When it crystallizes in your mind that you can't win, you won't win, and the pain is so unbearable that you have no choice but to say mercy.

I think the only life lesson you can glean from the game is that there will sometimes be a moment when you know you have to walk away. Whether it be with a job, a relationship, or a Jehovah's witness. Hope springs eternal, and I think some people hope that the neighborhood bully's hands will somehow buckle via divine intervention and the 5'2 pipsqueak will win. In the history of humankind, it has happened -- examples include David v. Goliath, New York Giants v. New England Patriots.

But maybe there's a reason that such events are historical.

Another thing is that, sometimes even when you realize that Mercy moment, you don't get it--mercy. It's not as simple as a kid releasing his grip on your hands. Sometimes the situation won't let go. It's something you can't just walk away from. Or it still hurts even after you walk away. Life is interesting like that.

Anyway, I have a habit of waiting until things get really really bad before I say "Mercy." It's only until I'm buckled-over in pain that I realize it might be time to throw in the towel. And until then, I wait and hope that things will get better. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Either way, life has a random habit of showing people no mercy.

Kitt-schy

I have a calendar in my office. It functions perfectly as a calendar. It tells the onlooker the date, the day of the week, the month, and the year. It is normal in every respect except one: It has cats on it. Not just cats, but a lot of cats.

I love furry animals, both cats and dogs. And the boyf got me a silly cat calendar at my request. Little did I know that this particular cat calendar is INSANE.

A normal cat calendar would probably have one large photograph for every month with a cat lying in repose on a fence or in a basket or sniffing a daffodil. Not so in my case. My cat calendar has a thousand pictures for every month. Okay, in actuality, one photograph for every date of every month. Each date has a "zany" photograph with an even "zanier" caption. There are cats wearing boas, cats inside fish bowls, cats wearing scarves, cats wearing ear muffs, cats wearing football helmets, cats wearing other cats. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not. The captions are even worse.

Beneath a picture of a cat inside a hamster gym: "Don't be afraid, Jellybean. It's a hamster spa and I'm going to give you a massage."

Was that even a joke?

Beneath a photograph of a cat next to a Scrabble board: "Cheated at Scrabble with neighbor's pug."

I don't get it.

This calendar is so painfully bad and kitschy, it's funny. Except I always get the distinct feeling that when people walk into my office, they expect to find a 45-year-old woman with a peroxide-bleached-mullet, a pink and yellow sweater vest, and canvass shoes from Wal-Mart.

Then I think about the cats. Did any of these cats have any idea that they would be memorialized in a horribly tacky cat calendar? Did that one cat sitting next to the Scrabble board have an inkling that its decision to sit on a chair that happened to be next to a piece of cardboard would forever link it to a word game and an imaginary canine? I wonder where that cat is right now, and if it has any idea what its owner did to it, or if it will ever know.

At any rate, I feel like it's my duty to keep this calendar posted on my wall. A weaker person would put the calendar down and burn it. But I'll keep it posted and be forever tortured by earmuff-wearing cats.

10.6 months to go.

Drinking some haterade

I know someone who has a blog. I won't say who she is, as her blog is not anonymous. She posted her full name, first and last, her occupation, and even where she works. She also posted her picture.

I find this amusing. I know exactly what she looks like and so I find it entertaining that she selectively chooses photographs of her that wildly flatter her features, almost to the point of making her look attractive. The woman is not attractive. The best word to describe her is "hag."

OKOKOK, I realize that this observation of mine is slightly petty. I mean, who the f cares what picture you post of yourself on your blog? If you look like a troll and decide to take the time and effort to airbrush your photograph to mimic the beauty of Jessica Alba, that's your prerogative.

Fair enough. I'm just saying that I find it amusing that a number of guys -- guys who don't know what she looks like in person, mind you -- post comments on how beautiful she is. Seriously folks, she is a hag. (Can the reader tell that I don't like this woman at all?) And so it cracks me up that she posts still photos of herself where she is literally modeling in front of cityscapes or lilies. I wonder if she set up a tripod to photograph herself, if she has Photoshop, or if she had a friend doctor her photos. Whatever the special effects may be, I admit she did an amazing job of turning "hag" into "hot."

Another thing I will admit is that I'm being a hypocrite. I personally will not post any photo on myspace, facebook, or whatevs where I look fat, old and/or otherwise ugly. I will only post photos where I am smiling at the right angle and my arm fat is minimalized by the position of my arm. And what normal human being wouldn't pick photos of herself looking her most stunning?

I suppose it rubs me the wrong way how orchestrated all of her photo shoots are and how much of a discrepancy there is between the real her and the photographed her. Why should this bother me? I don't know, it has absolutely no bearing on my life.

Just remember this, folks: beauty is in the eye of the Photoshop airbrusher.

Impurrfect

It must be nice to be a house cat.

Here's a typical day. You wake up. At 1:30 pm. You yawn, stretch and walk over to the bowl of food your servant has already prepared for you. Then you drink from the bowl of water that has also been prepared for you. Then you go back to sleep.

If you need to pee or take a dump, you do it in a sandbox, and your servant cleans it all up for you.

When you want attention, you walk up to your servant, and she will pet you, cuddle you, lift you and utter nonsensical words to you, usually in a falsetto voice. All you need to do is purr.

If you poop on the rug or vomit on the sofa, it's okay. After all, you're just a cat. No worries, your servant will clean up your mess for you.

Like I said, it's a nice life.

The only trade off is, you're probably neutered or spayed. And that means you're pretty much guaranteed to die a virgin. And for this reason, I'm not too bummed over my station in life as a human.

At least that's what I try to tell myself.

Earphoria

There is something to be said about the feeling you get when you're crossing a busy street downtown, surrounded by bundled-up strangers and looming skyscrapers, and hearing through your iPod the voice of Frank Sinatra wax poetic about the very city you're meandering through. The song is the perfect backdrop, the ultimate soundtrack, to the city. Your naturally quick pace slackens as your eyes drift upwards towards the glass and stone buildings that stretch and arch towards the sky, a sky that looks like it could be scraped, a sky that signifies endless possibilities; and you almost begin to believe that the city, This City, really does have all the hope and promise the song foretells.

Boredom

Once, a girl, Y, was having dinner three individuals. The three were quantum physicists, while Y was the sole lawyer.

The three quantum physicists went on and on about subatomic particles and vectors. During the two-hour long discussion, Y had perfected the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn. After years of enduring boring lectures in college and law school, listening to her bosses wax eloquent on why her brief sucked and staying conscious during very bad dates, Y was an expert Closed-Mouth Yawner. Little did she know that all those years of practice were preparation for this exact type of situation.

Y couldn't escape. They were seated at a table with unfinished meals before them. Still though, halfway through the meal, Y was half-tempted to excuse her self and grab a cab outside the restaurant. But she didn't. Instead, she remained silent, took sips of her lemon water, and close-mouthed-yawned. A lot.

Finally one of the quantum physicists turned to Y. "Does this stuff completely bore you? Do you have absolutely no interest in our topics at ALL?"

Y was stunned. Exposed. Were quantum physicists not only mind-bogglingly smart, but also psychic?! Instead of answering with a resounding and honest "YES," Y replied, "Oh, it's just that most of this is over my head, ha ha."

The other three awkwardly laughed, and then resumed their conversation on vectors.

Apparently, Y was also not only an expert in the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn, but also the art of Evading Answers and Tactful yet Self-Deprecating Bull Shitting.

Conflict resolution 101

A and B are dating. A and B are usually chatty and chipper when together.

One day, A was silent and morose. B tried to be chatty and chipper. A was unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

Silence. Finally, A responded, "Yes. Sort of."

B replied, "What is it?"

A said, "It kind of bothered me when you did X."

B said, "Oh, doh. I didn't realize that. Sorry, I won't do it again."

A replied, "It's okay. Thanks for listening."

A and B then resumed being chatty and chipper again. Then a couple weeks later, A again became silent and morose. B tried again to be chatty and chipper. A was again unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

After pausing for a moment, A responded, "Well, yeah."

B waited. "And what's wrong?"

A replied, "Well, it bothered me when you did Y."

B replied, "Oh, I guess went too far when I made that joke. I apologize and I won't do it again."

A said, "It's okay."

A and B again resumed the chatty/chipper routine. Then one day, A was again being silent, morose, unresponsive and distant. B was now annoyed that every time A was silent, morose, unresponsive and distant, B had to be the one who asked the question, "Is something wrong?" and drag it out of B. Neither A nor B proclaim to be mind-readers. Therefore, in order for either person to know what is bothering the other person, the person has to say it, rather than convey it through silent, morose, unresponsive and distant conduct.

B was now confronted with a few choices:

1) Repeat the above-mentioned cycle.

2) Not do anything and let A's passive aggression play itself out until A has no choice but to, on A's own initiative, confront B and therefore break the cycle.

3) Repeat the cycle and then afterwards say, "I'd appreciate it if you were more upfront about things when you're upset with me. It's difficult for me to understand what's going unless you talk about it."

Both #s 1 and 3 are enabling/perpetuating the cycle. Yet #2 is slightly passive aggressive.

At any rate, A and B are having dinner tonight. The truth will hopefully reveal itself then.

Oh my

god. Today is January 8, 2008. I happened to walk into Walgreen's today to grab a soda when I saw an entire aisle -- an ENTIRE AISLE -- brimming with chocolates and candies and murals decorated in shades of hot pink, red, and white. Stores are already selling stuff for Valentine's Day! I still have candy canes from Christmas!

This is just as bad as seeing Christmas decorations as early as August. The holiday merchandise industry is crazy.

The binder clips

Once upon a time, there were three binder clips. By happenstance, they clipped three consecutive sets of documents in one case. And by happenstance, the sets of documents were unclipped at the same time, and the binder clips were placed facing each other. The binder clips were unsure who or what placed them there, only that a Great User dealt them their sets of documents. Yet for the first time, they were confronting each other face to face.

The first binder clip was small and silver. The second binder clip was medium and silver. And the third binder clip was medium and black.

Immediately, the black binder clip felt outnumbered by the silver clips. It envied the silvery finish of the other two clips yet took solace in knowing it bore the more traditional color of binder clips. The small binder clip also felt threatened as it was outnumbered by the two medium clips flanking it. They were much taller and wider than it was. Who knows what they could do to it?

Yet the medium silver binder clip felt at ease amongst its brethren. Could the medium silver binder clip bridge the gap between the black medium binder clip and the small silver binder clip? After all, it thought to itself, we are all Binder Clips.

They stared at each other in silence. "Gentlemen," the medium silver binder clip said. "I sense an unease."

The other two remained silent.

"Let me remind you that we are all one and the same," the medium silver binder clip continued. "Do we not have bodies of plastic and tongs of steel?"

The other two nodded grudgingly.

"Yes, the color of plastic may be different--" The medium black binder clip nodded.

"--And our sizes may vary--" The small silver binder clip nodded.

"--But we are the same." The medium black binder clip and small silver binder clip looked up at the medium silver binder clip.

"But we're not, really," the small silver binder clip said tentatively. "I am small, you both are medium."

"You both are silver, and I am black!" the medium black binder clip exclaimed.

"We are fundamentally different!" they both said.

"We are the same," the medium silver binder clip insisted. "We serve the same purpose. We have the same goal," its voice quivered with a metallic vibrato. "We clip documents!"

The other two binder clips looked at each other as the singularity of their purpose dawned on them.

"Yes," the small silver binder clip piped, "we do clip documents."

"I suppose so," the medium black one stated.

"Small binder clips are for small sets of documents. Medium binder clips are for medium sets of documents. And there are even large ones that clip large sets of documents," the medium silver binder clip continued. "You see? We all have our purpose. And the color of the binder clip has no bearing on the binder clip's ability. Some people like a little variety. Just look at us. Our Great User has used us both, not just silver, not just black, not just small, not just medium, but all colors and sizes."

The other two nodded with slow realization.

"We are the one and the same! We are . . . Binder Clips!" the medium silver binder clip snapped with a resounding finality.

As they all nodded in unison and reaffirmed their bond, they heard a noise. A door opened, all of a sudden the Great User entered the Realm. They became immediately silent, each hoping She hadn't heard their rumblings.

It was decided then. Theirs would be an unspoken pact among all binder clips, a realized purpose for all Binder Clip-kind. A secret from all Great Users.

Except this one.