Like any other female with remotely visible boobs and two legs, I've been subjected to strange men's catcalls. There are the usual "hey baby" or "hi sexy"--very unoriginal and cliche, I must say. Then there are the very lewd comments, bordering on pornographic, like "I wanna **** **** ******** **** ***!" (No, those *'s don't really spell anything.)
I think the nicest random comment I got on the street occurred on a rainy day. I was walking through Times Square with my umbrella after work, brushing by the rush hour sidewalk traffic, when for a moment I made eye contact with a random man. Obviously, when you're looking straight ahead, you're bound to make eye contact with some random people. At any rate, I continued walking when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see it was the same gentleman I had just made eye contact with.
"Hi there," he said, "I just want to say that I just walked by you and I think you're very beautiful."
I involuntarily smiled and said, "Oh... thank you."
He shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Tony. May I ask what your name is?"
"Yellow Gal," I responded.
"Well, it's nice meeting you Yellow Gal. I just wanted to let you know how I felt."
"Thank you," I said. And then I smiled and continued to walk away. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn't bad looking either. But I had a boyfriend at the time. Still, it was the nicest thing a stranger has ever said to me.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Michael Moore
has got balls. I just saw "Bowling for Columbine." Whether you hate him or love him, you've gotta give him credit for asking the blunt questions he unflinchingly asks.
The movie also brought up an interesting question: Why is there such a great disparity in the number of gun-related murders in the U.S. vs. Canada, despite both countries having comparable demographics, numbers of sold guns, levels of poverty, and exposure to violent television, movies, and video games? What the heck makes the U.S. so frigging violent?
I found amusing how people in Toronto freely admitted to the camera that they left their front doors unlocked--which to me is absolutely unheard of. Michael Moore then tested these statements by going to a Toronto neighboorhood and randomly opening front doors of houses. And, amazingly enough, the doors were all unlocked. Crazy!
The movie also brought up an interesting question: Why is there such a great disparity in the number of gun-related murders in the U.S. vs. Canada, despite both countries having comparable demographics, numbers of sold guns, levels of poverty, and exposure to violent television, movies, and video games? What the heck makes the U.S. so frigging violent?
I found amusing how people in Toronto freely admitted to the camera that they left their front doors unlocked--which to me is absolutely unheard of. Michael Moore then tested these statements by going to a Toronto neighboorhood and randomly opening front doors of houses. And, amazingly enough, the doors were all unlocked. Crazy!
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
"Home"
I'm going home soon. Not my apartment, but the home I lived in for most of my life. I still call it "home" even though I haven't lived there for about ten years. It's still so clear to me though.
Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.
Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.
It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.
Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.
Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.
It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.
Monday, December 12, 2005
My birthday
I just turned...um...a late-twenty-something number this past weekend. Even though I am "officially" in my late twenties, I still feel like I'm 23 or 24. That is until I meet an actual 23 or 24 year-old, with their unjaded hopefulness, youthful skin, and unfurrowed brows.
As we all left this very loud club this weekend, we were complaining like old ladies, like "That music was so loud!" and "My feet hurt!"
The descent into menopause begins...
As we all left this very loud club this weekend, we were complaining like old ladies, like "That music was so loud!" and "My feet hurt!"
The descent into menopause begins...
Friday, December 09, 2005
What was the question?
I was having a conversation with my very good friend last night. I was seeking his advice on how to get a guy to ask me out. His response: "Ask him out."
I proceed to tell him that I am incapable of asking a guy out because 1) I'm a wuss, 2) I fear rejection, and 3) I believe that men are repelled by aggressive women who ask men out.
He summarily dismissed the latter two reasons and added a new reason #2: Yellow Gal is irrational. He insisted that men like a woman who takes charge, who makes the move, who knows what she wants and goes for it, "The Rules" be damned.
"But wait," I responded, "doesn't that turn the guy off? Don't men want to pursue rather than be pursued?"
"Bull shit. You're a wuss."
"But Cosmo said--"
"Cosmo is bull shit."
"Okay so I'm a wuss. Now how do I get a guy to ask me out?"
"You will end up old and alone because you are paralyzed by your fear of rejection. Fine. Have fun in your nursing home as a spinster with your nine cats."
"Uh--"
"While you're at it, never pursue any dream, never apply for that promotion, and continue to waste away in your cesspool of self-doubt, fear, and stagnation..."
[Okay he didn't really say this word for word, but that's what he meant.]
He continued, "...Forego any and all hope of pursuing anything that might make you happy because you might [gasp] be rejected. If you and this guy don't end up going out, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
At this point, I'm getting annoyed by his condescending self-righteousness, but naturally I have no comeback.
So that's the tough-love-advice my friend gave me. And still the question remains: How do I get a guy to ask me out?
I proceed to tell him that I am incapable of asking a guy out because 1) I'm a wuss, 2) I fear rejection, and 3) I believe that men are repelled by aggressive women who ask men out.
He summarily dismissed the latter two reasons and added a new reason #2: Yellow Gal is irrational. He insisted that men like a woman who takes charge, who makes the move, who knows what she wants and goes for it, "The Rules" be damned.
"But wait," I responded, "doesn't that turn the guy off? Don't men want to pursue rather than be pursued?"
"Bull shit. You're a wuss."
"But Cosmo said--"
"Cosmo is bull shit."
"Okay so I'm a wuss. Now how do I get a guy to ask me out?"
"You will end up old and alone because you are paralyzed by your fear of rejection. Fine. Have fun in your nursing home as a spinster with your nine cats."
"Uh--"
"While you're at it, never pursue any dream, never apply for that promotion, and continue to waste away in your cesspool of self-doubt, fear, and stagnation..."
[Okay he didn't really say this word for word, but that's what he meant.]
He continued, "...Forego any and all hope of pursuing anything that might make you happy because you might [gasp] be rejected. If you and this guy don't end up going out, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
At this point, I'm getting annoyed by his condescending self-righteousness, but naturally I have no comeback.
So that's the tough-love-advice my friend gave me. And still the question remains: How do I get a guy to ask me out?
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Stupid people
Once upon a time, I was on the phone with a Sprint customer service representative. He asked me for my address. After I gave him my street address, he asked me for the city. "New York City," I replied. He said, "Okay I should know this, but what state?"
Even though I am agnostic, I believe in the tenets of evolution, more specifically, in natural selection. So it poses quite a mystery to me as to how stupid people have managed to survive for thousands and thousands of years. They have survived countless plagues, wars, and famines. Yet they don't know how to tie their shoelaces.
So all of this first leads me to believe that stupid people serve some purpose in the natural order (whether it be created by God, concocted by the "superman," or sprung from chaos). Without stupid people, what would the world be? What would all the smart and average people do with their time? What will happen to that grand old sport of banging your head on bricks for fun? And who will serve as the next guest on Jerry Springer?
Or MAYBE all this knowledge and education is irrelevant to evolution. If you are capable of coitus, then that is sufficient to propagate the species. All this nonsense about New York and 1 + 1 equaling 2 is simply unnecessary.
At any rate, the prevalence of stupid people will never cease to amaze me. When someone gives his real name to a bank teller while robbing a bank or when someone thinks that his credit limit on his credit card is "free money," I am born anew in the wonders of evolution's creation.
Necessary caveats:
1) My labeling the Sprint representative one of those "stupid people" may be tainted by his incompetence and inability to assist me in any shape, way, or form. He might have been in fact a genius.
2) I know there are other cities called New York. But should one possess the ever-so-rare ability to understand probability, one may make the educated guess that the individual is referring to New York, New York, the largest city in the U.S., and not New York, Georgia, which I don't think the Sprint rep was grappling with.
3) I am aware of the brain fart, which afflicts even the most brilliant of minds. e.g. Dude with an IQ of 200 tells himself fifteen times before he leaves the apartment, "Don't forget your car keys." Dude forgets the car keys. Brain fart.
Even though I am agnostic, I believe in the tenets of evolution, more specifically, in natural selection. So it poses quite a mystery to me as to how stupid people have managed to survive for thousands and thousands of years. They have survived countless plagues, wars, and famines. Yet they don't know how to tie their shoelaces.
So all of this first leads me to believe that stupid people serve some purpose in the natural order (whether it be created by God, concocted by the "superman," or sprung from chaos). Without stupid people, what would the world be? What would all the smart and average people do with their time? What will happen to that grand old sport of banging your head on bricks for fun? And who will serve as the next guest on Jerry Springer?
Or MAYBE all this knowledge and education is irrelevant to evolution. If you are capable of coitus, then that is sufficient to propagate the species. All this nonsense about New York and 1 + 1 equaling 2 is simply unnecessary.
At any rate, the prevalence of stupid people will never cease to amaze me. When someone gives his real name to a bank teller while robbing a bank or when someone thinks that his credit limit on his credit card is "free money," I am born anew in the wonders of evolution's creation.
Necessary caveats:
1) My labeling the Sprint representative one of those "stupid people" may be tainted by his incompetence and inability to assist me in any shape, way, or form. He might have been in fact a genius.
2) I know there are other cities called New York. But should one possess the ever-so-rare ability to understand probability, one may make the educated guess that the individual is referring to New York, New York, the largest city in the U.S., and not New York, Georgia, which I don't think the Sprint rep was grappling with.
3) I am aware of the brain fart, which afflicts even the most brilliant of minds. e.g. Dude with an IQ of 200 tells himself fifteen times before he leaves the apartment, "Don't forget your car keys." Dude forgets the car keys. Brain fart.
Bloggy
You know you're way too bloggy when you see something peculiar in the street and the first thing you think to yourself is "This should totally go into my blog!"
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Plain Jane
Jane was good at a lot of things. But she was very good at only three things. They were:
1) Holding her breath. Four minutes and three seconds was her personal best.
2) Bowling. Her average was a 230.
3) Pretending to be happy. Or more specifically, pretending to not be miserable.
Yes Jane was very good at pretending to be happy. She mastered the art of delightful small talk. Her craft was honed during countless elevator rides and drunken office parties. When people asked about her job, her family, or her life overall, she simply affixed her perfect smile and recited her well-rehearsed soliloquy on how fucking happy she was.
Even with her "close friends," Jane was ostensibly happy. She pretended to ooh and aah over her friends' work woes, their new boyfriends, or the new cashmere sweaters they bought at Bloomingdale's. Their conversations were more like empty noises than real conversations. The more she spoke about herself, the more hollow her chest felt.
And every night, she would come home to her empty, spotless apartment, jog on her treadmill for an hour, shower, and make herself a turkey rye sandwich. Then without fail, she would cry for about two hours. Afterwards, she would wipe her eyes, brush her teeth, wash her face, and go to bed.
It was all very routine. The cycle would repeat the next morning. And repeat. Jane took a special pride in this gift she had, the gift to pretend.
That was until one day. One point five hours into her nightly crying spell, there was a soft knock at the door. She grabbed a tissue and opened the door with a "what?"
There was a man there. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, covering her blotchy face with her tissue.
"Okay. I was just leaving my buddy's apartment and heard you and just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
"I'm fine," she said.
"You don't seem fine," he pressed.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Um, I'm just going to get back to--"
"Get back to crying?" he said. She looked at him. Did he just smirk?
"I'm Jared by the way. May I ask your name?"
She was not obligated to give her name to a completely random stranger, but she did. "Jane," she said, "Plain Jane." He blinked at her. God, why did she get Tourette's whenever a not-so-ugly guy spoke to her?
"Hi Jane," he said.
"Okay gotta go bye," she said closing the door on his smirk.
She went back to her couch and box of tissues to resume crying. She still had twenty-five minutes left. She sat there and waited. Nothing happened.
"Goddamn it," she muttered to herself. Goddamn that smirk. That guy. What's his name. Jared.
1) Holding her breath. Four minutes and three seconds was her personal best.
2) Bowling. Her average was a 230.
3) Pretending to be happy. Or more specifically, pretending to not be miserable.
Yes Jane was very good at pretending to be happy. She mastered the art of delightful small talk. Her craft was honed during countless elevator rides and drunken office parties. When people asked about her job, her family, or her life overall, she simply affixed her perfect smile and recited her well-rehearsed soliloquy on how fucking happy she was.
Even with her "close friends," Jane was ostensibly happy. She pretended to ooh and aah over her friends' work woes, their new boyfriends, or the new cashmere sweaters they bought at Bloomingdale's. Their conversations were more like empty noises than real conversations. The more she spoke about herself, the more hollow her chest felt.
And every night, she would come home to her empty, spotless apartment, jog on her treadmill for an hour, shower, and make herself a turkey rye sandwich. Then without fail, she would cry for about two hours. Afterwards, she would wipe her eyes, brush her teeth, wash her face, and go to bed.
It was all very routine. The cycle would repeat the next morning. And repeat. Jane took a special pride in this gift she had, the gift to pretend.
That was until one day. One point five hours into her nightly crying spell, there was a soft knock at the door. She grabbed a tissue and opened the door with a "what?"
There was a man there. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, covering her blotchy face with her tissue.
"Okay. I was just leaving my buddy's apartment and heard you and just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
"I'm fine," she said.
"You don't seem fine," he pressed.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Um, I'm just going to get back to--"
"Get back to crying?" he said. She looked at him. Did he just smirk?
"I'm Jared by the way. May I ask your name?"
She was not obligated to give her name to a completely random stranger, but she did. "Jane," she said, "Plain Jane." He blinked at her. God, why did she get Tourette's whenever a not-so-ugly guy spoke to her?
"Hi Jane," he said.
"Okay gotta go bye," she said closing the door on his smirk.
She went back to her couch and box of tissues to resume crying. She still had twenty-five minutes left. She sat there and waited. Nothing happened.
"Goddamn it," she muttered to herself. Goddamn that smirk. That guy. What's his name. Jared.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
I am a white swan
I checked my email and saw that one online dude emailed me. He was ridiculously old and unattractive so I naturally clicked on his profile to check him out. He described himself and his perfect mate as follows (and incidentally, he is white):
I am very romantic, very peaceful and a very mature person and think very rationally. I am very respectful of ladies. I adore Asian woman and I think they are the most beautiful creations in this world and they are the gift of God (if there was any God) to the men of this world. I love them and would do any thing for my dream Asian Angel, with the long black hair. I have traveled to over 93 countries all around the world, and I find Asian women are the most beautiful, delicate, softest, most romantic, very loyal, warm hearted, most catering to man and very, very ... "Hot". An Asian Lady to me is like a white swan in a calm and beautiful lake Geneva, like a ballerina of dreams in the best Russian Ballet in St. Peters Burge, the most beautiful and aromatic rose in the Garden of Eden, like the aroma of the pink “Plumeria” (Hawaiian flower), and with free spirits like the snow covered peaks of mount Kilimanjaro. An Asian Lady is my DREAM WOMAN, and I will not rest until my dreams come true. “WOULD YOU WALK TO MY DREAM", you Asian Angel? Yes you! I mean you, reading these words! Could you be the one to make my dreams come to a reality? Will you be my lifetime partner? You never know? Why don’t you contact me?????
-------------
OKAY, in all seriousness, is this dude for real? It is so utterly ridiculous that I think it's a joke. I almost want to email him and be like, "Is this a joke?"
If it isn't a joke, then I am most flattered that I am someone's dream woman / white swan / most beautiful creation / dream come true.
I am very romantic, very peaceful and a very mature person and think very rationally. I am very respectful of ladies. I adore Asian woman and I think they are the most beautiful creations in this world and they are the gift of God (if there was any God) to the men of this world. I love them and would do any thing for my dream Asian Angel, with the long black hair. I have traveled to over 93 countries all around the world, and I find Asian women are the most beautiful, delicate, softest, most romantic, very loyal, warm hearted, most catering to man and very, very ... "Hot". An Asian Lady to me is like a white swan in a calm and beautiful lake Geneva, like a ballerina of dreams in the best Russian Ballet in St. Peters Burge, the most beautiful and aromatic rose in the Garden of Eden, like the aroma of the pink “Plumeria” (Hawaiian flower), and with free spirits like the snow covered peaks of mount Kilimanjaro. An Asian Lady is my DREAM WOMAN, and I will not rest until my dreams come true. “WOULD YOU WALK TO MY DREAM", you Asian Angel? Yes you! I mean you, reading these words! Could you be the one to make my dreams come to a reality? Will you be my lifetime partner? You never know? Why don’t you contact me?????
-------------
OKAY, in all seriousness, is this dude for real? It is so utterly ridiculous that I think it's a joke. I almost want to email him and be like, "Is this a joke?"
If it isn't a joke, then I am most flattered that I am someone's dream woman / white swan / most beautiful creation / dream come true.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Old friends
I'm going to see some people I have not seen in a long time.
Why does the prospect of seeing old friends all of a sudden trigger the urges to go on a diet, work out twice a day, and come up with a spiel as to how my love life and career are in their "working stages"? I know they're not friends with me because of my body fat percentage or my stats, but because of my oh-so-charming personality. I know this. But the urges beckon.
Odd isn't it?
Why does the prospect of seeing old friends all of a sudden trigger the urges to go on a diet, work out twice a day, and come up with a spiel as to how my love life and career are in their "working stages"? I know they're not friends with me because of my body fat percentage or my stats, but because of my oh-so-charming personality. I know this. But the urges beckon.
Odd isn't it?
Monday, November 28, 2005
Second date (a.k.a. "Last date")
Online Date did call me and ask me out for a second date on Saturday night to a pool hall. I was needless to say, ecstatic.
It had been a while since I "had" a guy. For the first time in what felt like a century, I'd be on a fun date with a cute, intelligent guy that would hopefully end with a kiss. I hadn't kissed a guy in a very very long time, so one may understand why I fell into that trap that certain women fall prey to: extrapolating ridiculously overdramatic theories a/b one's future with this potential boyfriend. I even went so far as to imagine introducing him to my family (yes, pathetic, I know).
I badgered my guy friend into telling do's and don'ts on a second date. Obvious don'ts: sex of any kind, and even harmless nudity. A kiss in the car or even an extended make-out session should be sufficiently non-slutty.
So it was Saturday night. Online Date was 10 minutes late when he picked me up. Sitting next to him in the car, he looked a bit goofier. And the conversation stalled a few times as we drove to the pool hall. Still I remained optimistic.
We went to a pool hall (despite my poor shooting skills) when I began to see his True Self.
You see, on our bistro date, I was impressed by his ability to articulate his thoughts on philosophy and science. Yet in a casual, fun setting, he was utterly socially inept. Like an eight year old boy, he spent most of the evening teasing me. Not quite "You're fat and ugly!" but more like "that coat makes your head look like a balloon! ha ha!"
When I neglected to laugh at one of his oh-so-witty jokes, he gave me a knowing nod and said, "I'm joking. Sorry, sometimes it's hard to get my sarcasm." I didn't feel like explaining that it wasn't his sarcasm I didn't get--just his utterly bad, stupid, witless comments.
Every several minutes or so, he would jokingly antagonize me by making fun of me and mocking me. When I mentioned I liked dancing, he started mock-dancing, asking me, "Is this how you dance?" [Picture the Chandler dance from "Friends." Now picture Yellow Gal with a mixed expression of horror and disgust.]
What grade are we in? He didn't pull my pig tails but he did slap my left ass cheek randomly. At this point, my desire to have a boyfriend to kiss was replaced by an overwhelming desire to fashion a noose out of my scarf. Instead of noose-making, however, I merely said, "I need a drink."
We went to the bar whereupon I downed two consecutive Jack Daniels on the rocks to numb the pain. Whilst sipping our drinks, we began talking -- analogizing the Prime Directive of Star Trek to U.S. foreign policy. And he became normal again--articulate, intelligent, coherent. Then when we resumed shooting pool, he reverted to his third grade self. And my whiskey buzz did not alleviate the misery laden in his pathetic jokes.
Moreover, I realized we had little in common in terms of movies and hobbies. He did NOT like "Office Space" though he ironically spoke like Lumbergh. I concluded that while we were capable of having deep conversations, we were incapable of socializing on a normal, casual level.
Finally, pool came to an end. He suggested going to another bar which I vetoed with a stern "no." In the car, more pain ensued. My name, as I always indicated in person and in email, was Yellow Gal. Yet in the car (and perhaps a few other times throughout the night) he began calling me Yellow Gallygal. I corrected him, saying "My name is not Yellow Gallygal. It's Yellow Gal."
He then entered into annoying-joking mode and gleefully badgered, "Why don't you like Gallygal? What happened? Were you teased as a child? Traumatized by horrible childhood memories? [chuckle]"
I curtly responded, "Because it's not my name. My name is Yellow Gal. How would you like if I called you Online Dateramamama or Online Dumbass?"
He paused, musing over my exasperated remark, and said, "Okay. Yellow Gal it is."
"Thank you," I replied.
He pulled in front of my apartment and I awkwardly said, "Well I had a good time. Thanks for taking me out."
"My pleasure," he said.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, avoided eye contact, and placed my hand on the car door handle. "Well good night!" I squeaked. He then unbuckled his seatbelt--to do what? I didn't know and didn't want to find out. "Bye!" I said as I opened the door and bolted from his car.
And that, my dear friends, is known as my second/last date with Online Date #1.
The following morning, Online Date called me, leaving me a message asking me to spend the day with him. Perhaps only more shocking than his behavior on Saturday night is how he perceived my constant grimaces, curt remarks, and failure to laugh at his jokes as indicators that I liked him so much that I would want to see him immediately the following day. I did not return his call & instead wrote him today a Dear John email. It ended the way it began.
Next.
It had been a while since I "had" a guy. For the first time in what felt like a century, I'd be on a fun date with a cute, intelligent guy that would hopefully end with a kiss. I hadn't kissed a guy in a very very long time, so one may understand why I fell into that trap that certain women fall prey to: extrapolating ridiculously overdramatic theories a/b one's future with this potential boyfriend. I even went so far as to imagine introducing him to my family (yes, pathetic, I know).
I badgered my guy friend into telling do's and don'ts on a second date. Obvious don'ts: sex of any kind, and even harmless nudity. A kiss in the car or even an extended make-out session should be sufficiently non-slutty.
So it was Saturday night. Online Date was 10 minutes late when he picked me up. Sitting next to him in the car, he looked a bit goofier. And the conversation stalled a few times as we drove to the pool hall. Still I remained optimistic.
We went to a pool hall (despite my poor shooting skills) when I began to see his True Self.
You see, on our bistro date, I was impressed by his ability to articulate his thoughts on philosophy and science. Yet in a casual, fun setting, he was utterly socially inept. Like an eight year old boy, he spent most of the evening teasing me. Not quite "You're fat and ugly!" but more like "that coat makes your head look like a balloon! ha ha!"
When I neglected to laugh at one of his oh-so-witty jokes, he gave me a knowing nod and said, "I'm joking. Sorry, sometimes it's hard to get my sarcasm." I didn't feel like explaining that it wasn't his sarcasm I didn't get--just his utterly bad, stupid, witless comments.
Every several minutes or so, he would jokingly antagonize me by making fun of me and mocking me. When I mentioned I liked dancing, he started mock-dancing, asking me, "Is this how you dance?" [Picture the Chandler dance from "Friends." Now picture Yellow Gal with a mixed expression of horror and disgust.]
What grade are we in? He didn't pull my pig tails but he did slap my left ass cheek randomly. At this point, my desire to have a boyfriend to kiss was replaced by an overwhelming desire to fashion a noose out of my scarf. Instead of noose-making, however, I merely said, "I need a drink."
We went to the bar whereupon I downed two consecutive Jack Daniels on the rocks to numb the pain. Whilst sipping our drinks, we began talking -- analogizing the Prime Directive of Star Trek to U.S. foreign policy. And he became normal again--articulate, intelligent, coherent. Then when we resumed shooting pool, he reverted to his third grade self. And my whiskey buzz did not alleviate the misery laden in his pathetic jokes.
Moreover, I realized we had little in common in terms of movies and hobbies. He did NOT like "Office Space" though he ironically spoke like Lumbergh. I concluded that while we were capable of having deep conversations, we were incapable of socializing on a normal, casual level.
Finally, pool came to an end. He suggested going to another bar which I vetoed with a stern "no." In the car, more pain ensued. My name, as I always indicated in person and in email, was Yellow Gal. Yet in the car (and perhaps a few other times throughout the night) he began calling me Yellow Gallygal. I corrected him, saying "My name is not Yellow Gallygal. It's Yellow Gal."
He then entered into annoying-joking mode and gleefully badgered, "Why don't you like Gallygal? What happened? Were you teased as a child? Traumatized by horrible childhood memories? [chuckle]"
I curtly responded, "Because it's not my name. My name is Yellow Gal. How would you like if I called you Online Dateramamama or Online Dumbass?"
He paused, musing over my exasperated remark, and said, "Okay. Yellow Gal it is."
"Thank you," I replied.
He pulled in front of my apartment and I awkwardly said, "Well I had a good time. Thanks for taking me out."
"My pleasure," he said.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, avoided eye contact, and placed my hand on the car door handle. "Well good night!" I squeaked. He then unbuckled his seatbelt--to do what? I didn't know and didn't want to find out. "Bye!" I said as I opened the door and bolted from his car.
And that, my dear friends, is known as my second/last date with Online Date #1.
The following morning, Online Date called me, leaving me a message asking me to spend the day with him. Perhaps only more shocking than his behavior on Saturday night is how he perceived my constant grimaces, curt remarks, and failure to laugh at his jokes as indicators that I liked him so much that I would want to see him immediately the following day. I did not return his call & instead wrote him today a Dear John email. It ended the way it began.
Next.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
First date
Last night I went on my first online date. The man did not bring a shovel or a pickax nor did he wear a Michael Jackson glove. He was well-groomed, spoke in proper English, and did not bite. And he looked like his picture. Some of my friends reported meeting guys who would post pictures from their high school yearbook only to learn that these guys gained a hundred pounds since. In my case, my guy was quite cute.
I'm usually terrified of attractive men, but he had a slight air of unpretentious goofiness that put me at ease. We met at a bistro downtown and talked. And talked.
It was one of those great conversations where you lose track of time, where you talk about everything from Marxism to Dennis Rodman, where you forget there are other people in the room so when you pound the table cackling at an insanely funny story, you don't notice the twenty or so patrons staring at you with disdain. So much fun. All in about three hours on a Monday evening.
At the end of the evening, I shook his hand (too formal?) and told him I had a great time. We exchanged our real numbers and he said he'd definitely call me (will he?). Then he opened his arms to hug me and so we hugged.
All in all, a great date. I hope he calls. God even as I blog this, I can't help but well up with excitement like a giddy little girl.
My guy friend told me some guys humor girls and tell them they'll call, hug them, etc. and then end up never seeing the girl again. I found that disconcerting. Yet my friend assured me this dude will probably call. Then I wondered if my guy friend was, in guy fashion, humoring me. I suppose we'll see.
I'm usually terrified of attractive men, but he had a slight air of unpretentious goofiness that put me at ease. We met at a bistro downtown and talked. And talked.
It was one of those great conversations where you lose track of time, where you talk about everything from Marxism to Dennis Rodman, where you forget there are other people in the room so when you pound the table cackling at an insanely funny story, you don't notice the twenty or so patrons staring at you with disdain. So much fun. All in about three hours on a Monday evening.
At the end of the evening, I shook his hand (too formal?) and told him I had a great time. We exchanged our real numbers and he said he'd definitely call me (will he?). Then he opened his arms to hug me and so we hugged.
All in all, a great date. I hope he calls. God even as I blog this, I can't help but well up with excitement like a giddy little girl.
My guy friend told me some guys humor girls and tell them they'll call, hug them, etc. and then end up never seeing the girl again. I found that disconcerting. Yet my friend assured me this dude will probably call. Then I wondered if my guy friend was, in guy fashion, humoring me. I suppose we'll see.
Monday, November 21, 2005
My morning affirmation
I literally broke my scale. The tiny plastic window with the small red line that points to the number is cracked. It was so tragic, so utterly cliche, that I could not help but laugh.
The persimmons
My aunt had given me nine persimmons last week. Each was perfectly orange and firm. There may have been a bruise or a scratch on a few, but for the most part they were healthy and smooth. I dutifully took them home with me and placed them in my refrigerator, arranging them into perfect rows of three.
Following that day, I would frequent my fridge to grab some soda or juice. Each time I opened the refrigerator, the light revealed the persimmons in their perfect rows, looking up at me hopefully, longing to be plucked from their refrigerated existence and fulfill that purpose for which they were grown. Yet each time, I would take a carton or can and close the door upon them in cool darkness.
Days went by. Their small leaves began to dry and fray. Their luster, though steadfast, began to dull. Yet each day they remained bright and hopeful. Soon, it had been over a week. I began to rationalize to myself, it's been over a week, they’re probably not good anymore. And so I went into a small wooden cabinet, took out one black plastic bag, and placed each one inside it. They were still smooth and cool in my hand.
I took the bag to the dumpster outside my apartment building and placed them gently on a pile of debris. “They’re just fruit,” I reminded myself as I closed the lid.
Later that night, I was peeling an orange, when I thought of the persimmons. My nine persimmons. Small. Cold. And alone.
I went to drop something else into the dumpster this morning. I opened the lid and saw nothing but a gaping empty bin. The persimmons were gone.
Following that day, I would frequent my fridge to grab some soda or juice. Each time I opened the refrigerator, the light revealed the persimmons in their perfect rows, looking up at me hopefully, longing to be plucked from their refrigerated existence and fulfill that purpose for which they were grown. Yet each time, I would take a carton or can and close the door upon them in cool darkness.
Days went by. Their small leaves began to dry and fray. Their luster, though steadfast, began to dull. Yet each day they remained bright and hopeful. Soon, it had been over a week. I began to rationalize to myself, it's been over a week, they’re probably not good anymore. And so I went into a small wooden cabinet, took out one black plastic bag, and placed each one inside it. They were still smooth and cool in my hand.
I took the bag to the dumpster outside my apartment building and placed them gently on a pile of debris. “They’re just fruit,” I reminded myself as I closed the lid.
Later that night, I was peeling an orange, when I thought of the persimmons. My nine persimmons. Small. Cold. And alone.
I went to drop something else into the dumpster this morning. I opened the lid and saw nothing but a gaping empty bin. The persimmons were gone.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Virtual superficiality
After countless months of being single and hearing the online dating adventures of two of my attractive, intelligent girlfriends, I decided to sign up on one of those dating websites. Upon doing so, I was suddenly confronted with how utterly superficial online dating can be.
It first asked me to write about myself and the guy I look for, and then I fill out a form of nonnegotiable traits—smoking or non, wants kids or not, income, and job type, to name a few. Income isn’t so important to me, but I suppose a minimal level of education is (at least college).
My guy friend was perusing the girls and one girl indicated that her perfect mate must be a lawyer, doctor, banker, or consultant and that he make at least six-figures a year! I suppose I give her credit for being so honest & blunt, but she looked completely shallow. Of course, my guy friend who after seeing her cute smiling picture, was compelled to contact her since he met those two specifications.
Another element of superficiality was the profile picture. The average guy will obviously be average-looking. In my experience though, some guys grow on you. They’re the average looking guys who win you with their wit, charm, and kindness. After a while, you think: “Hey he’s cute…” But on these websites, you are confronted with his picture immediately without getting to know him. Since most guys are average looking, it’s difficult to discern which ones will “grow on you” and which ones won’t. You read their profiles to prod further and they all seem to blend together—“I work hard, play hard. I’m easy-going. I enjoy life, art, fun” etc. etc.
And some guys are just, quite honestly, below average looking. I firmly believe that physical attraction is an important element of a relationship. If you are physically repulsed by someone, chances are you are not going to have a great relationship. (At least this is what I tell myself to justify my superficiality when I eliminate them.)
I’ve been on the other end, certainly. A couple times I’d see an appealing profile of a guy—we’d have stuff in common, he’d be cute—and then I’d read he only dates women of race X (and I am race Y). My response was usually, “Oh…okay.” Many guys have looked at my profile and declined to contact me. So it goes both ways.
It’s so surreal, to sort guys by age and demographics like they’re all a bunch of disposable computer files. Such an artificial dating environment. As for whether or not this works, I have no idea. We'll see.
It first asked me to write about myself and the guy I look for, and then I fill out a form of nonnegotiable traits—smoking or non, wants kids or not, income, and job type, to name a few. Income isn’t so important to me, but I suppose a minimal level of education is (at least college).
My guy friend was perusing the girls and one girl indicated that her perfect mate must be a lawyer, doctor, banker, or consultant and that he make at least six-figures a year! I suppose I give her credit for being so honest & blunt, but she looked completely shallow. Of course, my guy friend who after seeing her cute smiling picture, was compelled to contact her since he met those two specifications.
Another element of superficiality was the profile picture. The average guy will obviously be average-looking. In my experience though, some guys grow on you. They’re the average looking guys who win you with their wit, charm, and kindness. After a while, you think: “Hey he’s cute…” But on these websites, you are confronted with his picture immediately without getting to know him. Since most guys are average looking, it’s difficult to discern which ones will “grow on you” and which ones won’t. You read their profiles to prod further and they all seem to blend together—“I work hard, play hard. I’m easy-going. I enjoy life, art, fun” etc. etc.
And some guys are just, quite honestly, below average looking. I firmly believe that physical attraction is an important element of a relationship. If you are physically repulsed by someone, chances are you are not going to have a great relationship. (At least this is what I tell myself to justify my superficiality when I eliminate them.)
I’ve been on the other end, certainly. A couple times I’d see an appealing profile of a guy—we’d have stuff in common, he’d be cute—and then I’d read he only dates women of race X (and I am race Y). My response was usually, “Oh…okay.” Many guys have looked at my profile and declined to contact me. So it goes both ways.
It’s so surreal, to sort guys by age and demographics like they’re all a bunch of disposable computer files. Such an artificial dating environment. As for whether or not this works, I have no idea. We'll see.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Too PC
I'm forcing myself to read "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." My friend gave me a hard cover version of the novel and insisted that I read it. So I dutifully begin reading it even though I'm well past the age of its intended audience. I then encounter a rather interesting comment on the first page of the prologue. The novel casually mentions how in Korea, "people sometimes eat dogs."
Yes, I'm aware that I am perhaps too prone to the hyper-PC, liberal, knee-jerk reaction.
I can think of two other occasions when I've encountered first-hand various references to Asians eating dogs (excluding TV & movies).
One was when my family and I were vacationing in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. There was a Christmas show we were watching, where there were songs, dance routines, and skits. Among the skits was a particular comedian who mocked Mexicans (not Hispanics, just Mexicans), blacks, and of course, Asians. With respect to Asians, the very original and profound comedian mentioned an "oriental cookbook: How to wok [walk] a dog." Get it? The white folk sitting near my family laughed uncomfortably, my immigrant parents didn't get it, and so I could only shoot a look to my brother who gave me the same look of disbelief.
The second time was when I was scanning documents in a cubicle at a New York law firm. The secretary on the other side of the cubicle wall was chatting with an attorney. The attorney was mentioning how her sister was going to do the Peace Corps in China. As the attorney walked away from the secretary's desk, the secretary blurted out, "Just make sure she doesn't eat dog!" to which the attorney laughed and suddenly spotted me, the conspicuously Asian girl hidden behind the cubicle wall.
Am I being hypersensitive? Perhaps. I should be grateful that I'm not being called chink, gook, ching chong on a daily basis; that I'm not beaten or raped because I'm oriental; that I have the same rights as a white American. Perhaps that should be enough for me. But for some reason, it isn't.
Nonetheless, I continue to read "The Sisterhood." After all, the friend who highly recommended it to me is herself Korean. And if I were immobilized with dismay every time I encountered some remotely racial stereotype, I'd never get anything done.
Yes, I'm aware that I am perhaps too prone to the hyper-PC, liberal, knee-jerk reaction.
I can think of two other occasions when I've encountered first-hand various references to Asians eating dogs (excluding TV & movies).
One was when my family and I were vacationing in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. There was a Christmas show we were watching, where there were songs, dance routines, and skits. Among the skits was a particular comedian who mocked Mexicans (not Hispanics, just Mexicans), blacks, and of course, Asians. With respect to Asians, the very original and profound comedian mentioned an "oriental cookbook: How to wok [walk] a dog." Get it? The white folk sitting near my family laughed uncomfortably, my immigrant parents didn't get it, and so I could only shoot a look to my brother who gave me the same look of disbelief.
The second time was when I was scanning documents in a cubicle at a New York law firm. The secretary on the other side of the cubicle wall was chatting with an attorney. The attorney was mentioning how her sister was going to do the Peace Corps in China. As the attorney walked away from the secretary's desk, the secretary blurted out, "Just make sure she doesn't eat dog!" to which the attorney laughed and suddenly spotted me, the conspicuously Asian girl hidden behind the cubicle wall.
Am I being hypersensitive? Perhaps. I should be grateful that I'm not being called chink, gook, ching chong on a daily basis; that I'm not beaten or raped because I'm oriental; that I have the same rights as a white American. Perhaps that should be enough for me. But for some reason, it isn't.
Nonetheless, I continue to read "The Sisterhood." After all, the friend who highly recommended it to me is herself Korean. And if I were immobilized with dismay every time I encountered some remotely racial stereotype, I'd never get anything done.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Bob's Theorem
I was having a pleasant dinner with one of my high school friends who happens to be married. She was telling me about a male co-worker--let's call him Bob. She and Bob were pretty cool. Once in a while, they'd have lunch, grab a drink after work, or even have an occasional dinner. All the while, she openly spoke about her husband, wore her wedding ring & band, and gave no indication of anything other than friendship.
When my friend happened to mention Bob to her husband, he responded, "Bob wants you."
"What are you talking about?" she asked her hubby incredulously.
"Bob wants you. It's so obvious."
"He knows I'm married and we never flirt. We are so platonic."
"Look, no guy would ever pay that much attention to you unless he wanted to get with you, wedding ring notwithstanding."
"I don't believe it," my friend continued.
"Any guy who is friends with a girl is only friends with her because in the back of his mind, he is attracted to her and wants her."
She was shocked by this, and refused to believe her husband...That is, until one particular evening with Bob. She and Bob were having after-work drinks and as usual, had a pretty good time. Bob was driving her home when he asked her about her marriage.
"Oh, I love my hubby," she replied.
"Cool," Bob said. "So you're happy with him?"
"Yes, of course," she replied.
"So it's not like, you'd ever hook up with anyone else right?"
"No way, I'm married," she responded.
"Oh okay. Cool," Bob said casually.
That was the last time she and Bob ever hung out. He stopped dropping by her cubicle and never asked her to lunch, drinks, or dinner again. She was now a believer.
So my friend was telling me this entire story over dinner. But I couldn't believe it. "Guys and girls CAN be friends," I urged.
She pressed further, "I'm not saying every guy you're friends with wants to get with you. I'm saying that on some level, they're minimally attracted to you and probably wouldn't mind if you suddently decided to bust a move on them."
"What?! Sick!!" I retorted, thinking of all my platonic brotherly guy friends.
"It's true... I believe it."
"Well if that's the case, then ugly girls would never have guy friends."
"They don't," she stated perfunctorily. "Think about it."
I thought about it. I knew there had to be some homely girl out there who had guy friends. But I didn't even know any ugly girls, let alone ugly girls with guy friends.
I may not have much faith in men, but I'm not so jaded as to believe that a guy would refuse to be friends with a girl simply because she was unattractive.
When my friend happened to mention Bob to her husband, he responded, "Bob wants you."
"What are you talking about?" she asked her hubby incredulously.
"Bob wants you. It's so obvious."
"He knows I'm married and we never flirt. We are so platonic."
"Look, no guy would ever pay that much attention to you unless he wanted to get with you, wedding ring notwithstanding."
"I don't believe it," my friend continued.
"Any guy who is friends with a girl is only friends with her because in the back of his mind, he is attracted to her and wants her."
She was shocked by this, and refused to believe her husband...That is, until one particular evening with Bob. She and Bob were having after-work drinks and as usual, had a pretty good time. Bob was driving her home when he asked her about her marriage.
"Oh, I love my hubby," she replied.
"Cool," Bob said. "So you're happy with him?"
"Yes, of course," she replied.
"So it's not like, you'd ever hook up with anyone else right?"
"No way, I'm married," she responded.
"Oh okay. Cool," Bob said casually.
That was the last time she and Bob ever hung out. He stopped dropping by her cubicle and never asked her to lunch, drinks, or dinner again. She was now a believer.
So my friend was telling me this entire story over dinner. But I couldn't believe it. "Guys and girls CAN be friends," I urged.
She pressed further, "I'm not saying every guy you're friends with wants to get with you. I'm saying that on some level, they're minimally attracted to you and probably wouldn't mind if you suddently decided to bust a move on them."
"What?! Sick!!" I retorted, thinking of all my platonic brotherly guy friends.
"It's true... I believe it."
"Well if that's the case, then ugly girls would never have guy friends."
"They don't," she stated perfunctorily. "Think about it."
I thought about it. I knew there had to be some homely girl out there who had guy friends. But I didn't even know any ugly girls, let alone ugly girls with guy friends.
I may not have much faith in men, but I'm not so jaded as to believe that a guy would refuse to be friends with a girl simply because she was unattractive.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Illogical behavior
I am a rational, intelligent, educated human being. Why is it that, when confronted with another human being who happens to possess certain random genetic traits (in this case, tall, dark, and handsome), I am reduced to a sputtering, awkward, neurotic girl?
It makes no sense.
It makes no sense.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong
(A post from the "best of craigslist")
01) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
02) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
03) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
04) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
05) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
06) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
07) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
08) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
09) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.
10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.
Re-post this if you believe love makes a marriage.
01) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
02) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
03) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
04) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
05) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
06) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
07) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
08) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
09) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.
10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.
Re-post this if you believe love makes a marriage.
Monday, November 07, 2005
My language
I was on the phone with my aunt earlier today. She was speaking in her native tongue when I interrupted her a few times to say "What?" She then berated me for knowing so little of my native language. I suppose I have a bit of guilt for being so "white-washed" and not being fluent in my ethnic language, despite going to Saturday school as a kid to learn the language and taking four semesters of it in college.
I suppose this is the cliched plight of the Asian American: being "too white."
I suppose this is the cliched plight of the Asian American: being "too white."
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