Q & A

Question to my good friend, The Naysayer: "The Naysayer, why am I so attracted to bad guys?"

The Naysayer sayeth: "Because you're a girl."

And back to our regularly scheduled program

According to this blog-type quiz, the OkCupid Test, I am "The Battleaxe": Deliberate Brutal Love Master (DBLMf).

So not me! Anyhow, the analysis goes further:

Sharp. Hardened. Dominating. The Battleaxe sweeps all before her, smiting and what not.

You've had a number of serious relationships, so you obviously have many attractive qualities. You're well experienced in dealing with other people's weirdnesses, and it's likely you're good in bed by now, too. Also, like the drunken housewife chucking Heinekens at her no-good husband, you've got a lot of energy.

People can tell you're sophisticated, and so you find yourself the object of infatuations quite often. But it's how you handle yourself in your relationships that gets you the 'brutal' tag. Controlling? Imperious? Overbearing? Yes, please.

Remarkably, you don't mind the same from your men. You've experience enough to take whatever you dish out. Overall, you're a very good person and a capable lover, and when the time comes you'll make a fine divorcee.

ALWAYS AVOID: The Poolboy
CONSIDER: The False Messiah, someone just like you.

Like I said, so not me!

Happy birthday to me

I just had an enlightening talk with one of my bosses. He wished me a happy birthday, talked about where he was at age 29, and how far he's come now that he's in his fifties. I mentioned how demoralized I've been with the dating scene, and asked him, given his age of fifty-something, what he could impart to a single 29-year old. Some very interesting advice, apparently:

A person sometimes mistakenly believes that once she meets the right person, i.e., The One, this right person will somehow see, accept and subsequently assuage all of her insecurities, issues and neuroses. The love and validation that Mommy, Daddy or the Boss never gave her can be found in this one person. This hope gives way to optimism over this one person, because maybe, just maybe, this one will be the right one, and the right one will make everything better.

That is a mistake.

A person can't piggyback all of her problems or hinge her happiness and future hopes on one person, or any person for that matter. Nor can she hinge her happiness on her career. She has to first be happy with ... *corny alert* ... herself. In other words, she must suffice.

His words struck a chord with me. I've been bummed lately, due to lack of validation from work and men; all this time, I've been looking outward to be happy. And that was a mistake.

So my boss suggested following through on my interests, take a class, join a club. The agenda shouldn't be Finding A Man. It should be Doing Something I Actually Enjoy. He admitted that it might sound kind of corny, e.g., a single yuppie joining a book club with a bunch of other loners, but f that. If it's fun and you enjoy it, then do it. And doing something you enjoy actually makes you (surprise surprise) happier.

Also, he suggested trying to contain optimism. He knew it was easier said than done as he himself struggled with that in his single days. Try to contain the oh-my-god-he's-perfect! with eh-who-cares-if-it-happens-it-happens.

So I found all that very refreshing. It helped to hear that I'm not the only one who can feel be foolishly optimistic and subsequently demoralized by the disappointing dating scene, as he too went through the same pangs I am going through right now. It was also nice to hear that there is an explanation for the way I've been feeling and that there's at least one way to assuage the angst.

All in all, a well-received and very, dare I say, hopeful birthday present.

Will the fun ever end?

The only thing more fun than realizing that one is being unceremoniously blown off by a very very cute guy is going to a bar with your girlfriend, lookng down the bar, and spotting the very very cute guy who spots you simultaneously--with a very very cute girl neatly tucked under his arm.

Really, it's a lot of fun.

In my case, the very very cute guy whispered something into the very very cute girl's ear and pointed me out, at which point she walked away from him, past me, giving me a less than friendly look. Then he walked up to me and uttered a few pleasantries, with, unsurprisingly, flirtatious overtones. He asked me what I was doing Sunday, I replied "nothing," and he said, "I'll call you." And smiled. Then he said "Oh my friends and I are meeting up later. So it was nice seeing you today." And smiled again. Then we parted ways.

Then for the next several hours, I watched with a mix of disbelief and grief, the very very cute guy and the very very cute girl all over each other. In front of me.

Did I mention this was a lot of fun?

So I, Yellow Gal, am proud to say that I have discovered, yes discovered, a mathematical equation:

Romantic devastation + Self-deprecation + 5 martinis = Crying in a bathroom stall on girlfriend's shoulder

People say that things happen for a reason. And maybe Something or Someone made me and my friend choose -- out of all the bars in the Big Big City -- the one bar the very very cute guy was at, and made us decide -- out of all the rooms and corridors in the bar -- the one area the very very cute guy was in with his very very cute girl who, by the way, was also a Yellow attorney. (Can a guy have a fetish for Yellow attorneys?)

Needless to say, last night was not the best way to start off my birthday weekend. I wish I could just insert some witty remark here and laugh it all off as just another one of Yellow Gal's dating debacles. Yet after a while, making jokes about one's disappointments just doesn't quite get rid of the sting of the disappointment itself. It's not "fun," as I like to quip. Not fun at all.

The Naysayer Sayeth:

"The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."

Really fun boys

Being unceremoniously blown off (a.k.a. being dumped) is a very interesting phenomenon. My theory is that a girl goes through the five stages of grief when a guy tacitly dumps her by never contacting her ever again.

Denial
There's no way he's dumping me. I'm a catch! I got it going on. Plus he used the words "we" and "couple" the other day. No, he is just busy with work. Or in a coma.

Anger
What the f***?! Why the f*** isn't he f***ing calling me? That f***ing **** ********* piece of ****! F*** him!

Bargaining
Oh, if he'd only just call me, I'll lose more weight, I'll dress better, I won't make fun of Star Jones.

Depression
My life sucks. I'm dumb, vapid and ugly. And I still don't know how to parallel park. I will therefore die alone next to my cat Fluffy.

Acceptance
Yep I got dumped. That wasn't too fun. But I survived. Next!

In case the reader can't tell, I am amidst the angst of being unceremoniously blown off, no less by the very very cute guy.

First, I ponder over what I did wrong. Then I think, dude, I didn't do anything wrong. Then I wonder, wtf, how can I let one guy, one guy, get to me like this? And then I realize, the downside to being a hopeful romantic optimist (i.e. a dumbass) is inevitable disappointment.

So to correct one of my previous posts, boys aren't just fun, they're really fun!

Musings of a late-twenty-something-year-old gal

When I first got my driver's license at age 16, I looked at the expiration date and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm going to be 20 when this expires." Then when 20 rolled around, I looked at my driver's license and thought, "Wow, I can't believe I was 16 in this picture."

My birthday is just next week and I will be turning the big 2-9. Which sounds very surreal to me because I feel like I'm in my mid twenties, like 25-ish. And when I was 25, I thought I was going to marry my then-boyfriend. Pop my first kid out by 29 and my second by 31. Have a family, a career, a house, a cat and a dog. But I'm no where near that, well, except for the career, and we all know how great I feel about that. And while I have no regrets about breaking up with my then-boyfriend, I still can't help but muse over the fact that at age 29, I'm at the same stage I was at age 25. A little bit more experienced perhaps, a bit more educated, a bit more income, but substantially the same.

The idea of being happy sounds like such a simple idea. We are told that if you do x, y and z, you will be happy. Yet I have seen people do x, y and z, and learn much too late that it wasn't so simple after all. And isn't there a distinction between being content and being happy? Should I be content with being content? To me, "being content" connotes settling, a tacit resignation to a life less than one hoped for, and worse, less than what one deserves. Perhaps I'm clinging to my naive twenty-something optimism, but I'm just not quite yet ready to settle for "being content."

No, I think I would rather be happy.

Hello. My name's Forrest, Forrest Gump.

At 12:30 PM, I realize for the first time that I've been walking around all day wearing my shirt inside out.

Yeah.

Good times.

I just went to my cousin's wedding. Yes, I've woken up at 5:30 in the morning, as my sleep is fucked up from drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniels my other cousin snuck into the reception. One of the great things about going to a wedding that involves those of Yellow descent, and more specifically, relatives of Yellow descent, is that people feel the need, the overpowering urge, to approach you--if you so happened to be a single, unattached, 28-year-old--and ask you or tell you some combination of the following:

"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"You need to get married!"
"When are you going to get married?"
"It's so important to get married and have a family."

and best of all

"You're next!"

Interspersed between the twenty or so times various relatives felt the need to remind me that I am indeed without a boyfriend, that I am indeed single, and that I do indeed need to get married, was my mother, who looked at my face and told me how I've aged and there were a number of skin care professionals who could fix that. After she told me this five or six times, I remarked on the patch of hair growing out of her mole on her face and asked her if she was growing a mustache. Then I asked her if she was, in fact, a woman, if perhaps she were not really a man. She laughed at me and said, "Ooh, did I upset you?"

"No," I said.

"You're talking so fast. I can tell I upset you," she said to me, smiling.

I felt the tears rush to my eyes. My mom taking obvious pleasure in the fact that she got under my skin was the last straw.

"Well when you tell me five or six times how butt ass ugly I look, it gets to me."

"So if I've upset you, why did you say 'no' before?" she asked, amused.

"Okay so I am." At that point, I took my purse and walked out "to the ladies room." In reality, I walked around the hotel. I had no car. I couldn't escape. I called a couple friends who obviously would not be free to chat on a Saturday night and thus did not pick up their phone. The one friend who did pick up the phone ended up getting cut off because my cell phone battery died. So now I was stranded with no phone. I kept walking around the hotel until I ventured upon an arcade.

Oooh, pinball. I'll play pinball, I thought to myself. I put a dollar into the change machine whereupon it produced four quarters. I dropped two quarters into the machine and pressed start.

Nothing. I pressed "start" again. And again. Nothing.

I then body slammed into the pinball machine. Nothing. And then I laughed. "This is actually pretty funny," I remarked to myself. I tell the Front Desk that they have a defective pinball machine.

"Ooh, sorry, we don't give refunds," a woman simpered to me.

"Fine, but maybe you should put a note on there that it's broken," I said.

"Ooh, okay, [insert patronizing remark]."

"K bye."

I needed a drink and my cousin still hadn't brought me my bottle of Jack at this point so I decided to go to the small hotel bar. As I walked towards it, I saw to my dismay that a middle-aged, 600-pound man was waving me to me enthusiastically. Maybe not, I thought to myself.

So I walked around a bit more, stopped by the real ladies' room where I powdered my face a bit. Then in one of the stalls I could hear that distinct honking noise of my mom blowing her nose. I kept powdering my nose and she came out, saw me, washed her hands and held the door open for me, whereupon we exited the ladies' room together. She was totally oblivious.

I ignored her for the next twenty minutes, just watching the kids get crazy on the dance floor. My cousin finally proffered the Jack Daniels which I gladly poured into a styrofoam cup and drank straight. Nothing like whiskey to numb a gal from her pain.

Okay so I'm an idiot

Apparently I had all these comments to various postings on my blog from 2005 and uh...I didn't notice them til right now. Apologies to anyone who felt snubbed. Though I'm sure not too many of you were crying yourselves to sleep at night wondering, "Why, WHY didn't she publish my comment?!"

So I'm publishing virtually all of them. I used to get email notifications for comments but some setting got f-ed up, so I had no idea all this time. Duh.

Ella Fitzgerald hits it dead on

I love this song. It's a classic for a reason.

Someone to watch over me

There’s a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, "seek and ye shall find"
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind

Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet
He’s the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret

I’d like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me

I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood
I know I could, always be good
To one who’ll watch over me

Although he may not be the man some
Girls think of as handsome
To my heart he carries the key

Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

(bridge)

Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

Someone to watch over me

A very cute guy

There is a guy. He is very cute. So cute, in fact, that it is enough to distract me from the dumb yuppie angst I've been experiencing lately.

Of course, looks aren't everything. He's nice. Charming. Intelligent. Witty. And the night I met him, when a girl was all over him--a pretty girl who was pretty much a guaranteed lay--he extricated himself from her and talked with me. Me, the girl who did not constitute an easy lay. Walked me home. Asked for my number. Called me within 48 hours. Which leads me to think, this just might be a guy who is not just looking for ass. (How sad it is that a guy who is just not looking for ass can actually be something of note.)

So for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. I have a date with him on Friday night.

Like I said, looks aren't everything. But I can't help but think that he is too cute. I mean, I'm not an abomination of nature (I'd like to think). But I ain't Angelina Jolie/Jessica Alba. So it's rare for me to be in a predicament where a guy is so cute it makes me wonder, What the heck does he see in me? Seriously, this guy could get any 23-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 36C-23-34 girl he wanted. Maybe I have the Asian thing going for me (yes, he's white), but there are tons other hotter Asian chicks. And I suppose I am not utterly devoid of a personality. Still, I just can't help but think ... he's out of my league.

But I should not go down that path of neuroses. I've seen him a total of two times (the night I met him and one lunch). Maybe he's a weirdo. Or a former nerd turned hottie. Who knows? All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. A very cute guy.

Tuesday morning

This morning she stepped off the bus and started walking. Walking to work. The weather was unseasonably mild and windy. She felt the wind flip around her slightly blow-dried but still damp hair, and realized that it would be another bad hair day.

Nonetheless, she kept walking. And then it hit her. She was walking to work. Work. And suddenly she felt the work, the unfinished briefs, research and memos, weigh upon her chest.

I can do this, she thought to herself. I am not dumb. But even as she repeated the Stewart-Smalley-sayings to herself over and over again, she couldn’t help but doubt it all and feel an increasing sense of dread. Dread that whatever she handed to the partner would elicit yet another lecture on how inadequate her brief was. Dread that the work was not doable. Dread that she was, in fact, dumb.

I know I’m smart, I know it, she kept repeating to herself. She walked through the revolving doors and walked to her office’s elevator bank. An elevator light blinked and rang softly and the silver doors opened and invited the employed citizens of its building inside. She walked in, pressed the right floor and retreated to the corner of the elevator as people piled in.

The elevator hummed with each increasing floor and she closed her eyes. It was another morning. She could do it. She knew she could do it.

Fun boys

I know it's been a while. There are so many tales I want to spill onto this page, so many socially retarded guys I want to vilify (anonymously of course). But alas, time constraints exist. After hearing my latest dating debacle, my guy friend told me, "You know Yellow Gal, you should totally write a book. The title would be 'The Memoirs of Yellow Gal' where you could write about all the freak guys you meet."

Never mind the face biter/exfoliator, the 23-year-old who thought it was acceptable to blow off dinner with me to play his online poker game, or the 37-year-old who talked about his dog's case of the runs during lunch on our first date. The latest catch is a 29-year-old guy who:

a) "complimented" me by telling me that he unchivalrously requested that I take an hour-long train ride to see him to test whether or not I really liked him;
b) tried to have sex with me on the second date,
c) got irritated when I refused;
d) subsequently whined about his "blue balls"; and
e) on our 3rd date, brought his friend along and ignored me the whole time by making me sit in the back seat while they bantered, essentially making me feel like the third wheel.

I had a talk with him and he apologized for the above acts and attempted, pathetically and unsuccessfully, to justify himself to me. The boy is charming, but all the charm in the world couldn't conceal the fact that he was utterly bereft of any chivalry or decency.

Mr. Right is out there. He's elusive, he's a rarity, but he's there. I have to believe he is.

Otherwise, at least I can live off the royalties of my memoirs.

The truth will set us free. From guys.

I am a girl who used to be called ugly. It should therefore be of no surprise that I am always a little flattered and perhaps (pathetically) a bit grateful whenever a guy shows any interest in me. Yes, some guys have low standards (Pulse? Check. Two legs? Check.) Still, I cannot help but feel bad when a guy likes me, I go on a few dates with him, we may kiss once or twice, and I realize that it's just not going to happen. A tiny part of me, the ugly 13-year-old girl inside of me, says I should be thankful that any guy could ever like me--who the hell am I to think I'm too good for certain guys?

But I know, I know, that being upfront and honest is the way to go. Then one must utter some variation of the wretched words, "I think we should just be friends." And I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. It's funny. Women can endure 10 hours of excruciating pain wearing that perfect pair of shoes and push watermelons out of our vaginas; but sometimes telling a guy "I'm not interested in you" can be the hardest thing.

Of course, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, especially given my numerous rants on the Island of Lost Men. I bitch about guys who disappear on us, yet I myself face the same anxiety when having to confront a guy to tell him I don't like him in that way. I will say, in my defense, that I have never dated a guy for X months and then "broke up" by simply disappearing on him.

Some girls have supported the view that after 1 or 2 dates, a gal need not call the guy back at all if she isn't interested. After a few more dates however, the Talk is necessary.

The reason I'm blabbering about this is because I have to have the Talk with a guy tonight. I've been on a few dates with a genuinely nice guy, but it's just not working. I'm actually rehearsing the Talk in my head. For all I know, he might respond, "Don't flatter yourself. I was thinking the same thing." Whatever the case may be, it's better in the long-run to clarify feelings point blank than let things linger and string the guy along.

Yet, as always, easier blogged than done.

Break

It's 10:55 PM on a Wednesday night, and I sit in my office, in front of my computer, envying all you people who sit at home, comfortably lie on your couches, and flip through your TV channels or pages of a filthy magazine. It must be nice.

I haven't eaten yet, and so food beckons. My L'Oreal Caramel Creme lip gloss is looking tasty right now.

But work beckons. So must return. To. Work.

Yay.

Don't think, just live

Most of the time, I feel normal. I wake up, I shower, I get dressed, I go to work. I commute on the bus. I say "thank you" to the bus driver when I get off the bus. I walk a couple blocks to my office and enjoy the noise of the city for those couple blocks. I press the button in the elevator, say "good morning" to the receptionist, walk to my office that has a tiny bamboo plant in the corner, and read and write and talk for several hours. I go home. I eat. I talk to friends. I make plans for the weekend. I gossip. I fret over boys or work. It is all a very normal life. At least I pretend it is.

Every once in a while, I feel very abnormal. Like there's something that's very very wrong in my life. I can't really describe what it is. I have food and water to survive. I have friends and a job. Shouldn't that be enough for me to feel normal? It's almost as if I feel uncomfortable in my skin, or rather, suffocated in my skin. There's really no other way to describe it. But I can't really get out of my skin, because, first, that would be gross, and second, where would I go? I just feel like there are so many confusing unstable things going on outside my skin and inside my skin simultaneously. Everything is uncertain, unstable, and random; and it all (every once in a while) feels very very wrong.

Every once in a while, I wish I could be a moron. Okay not seriously. But I wonder, how much happier would I be if the dumbest things like eating, farting, and fucking were enough to make me happy? I would never question anything. Life would be very simple. And I'd be happy with my Big Mac and fries and Ricki Lake.

But instead, I think about things. And for some bizarre unknown reason, at this particular moment on a Monday evening, I feel very alienated, from what or whom, I don't know. I just feel very out of place. And this does not feel normal.

Ugh 2

The home phone rang on a Friday evening. After five rings, the call went to the answering machine. "Hi, please leave a message at the tone," the machine said.

After the beep, a voice started speaking.

"Hey there girl, it's me, Dental Technician. Yeah it's about 6:30 now, I'm just getting off work. Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner downtown. Give me a call when you get a chance. Buh-bye." Immediately after the message was recorded, it was deleted.

The home address listed in the records which Dental Technician was undoubtedly holding in his hands showed that the apartment was not downtown. Did Dental Technician think that his undeniable suave warranted a trip downtown?

For some reason, the combination of events the past two days was a turn off. Dental Technician requested a date while holding a metal hook near the gumline. The next day, he called the work number, was denied dinner, and was further told that he would be called back. (Not that there was a number to be called back at, except, of course, the dentist's office.) He called the very next day, at the home number listed in the dental records, to request dinner again on an answering machine.

Friends were consulted and all agreed that it wasn't totally bitchy to screen his calls and not call him back. The alternative would be to take one of his calls and say "Hi, yeah, I'm not interested in you at all. I only said yes because you were holding a deadly weapon near my gums when you asked me on a date and I didn't want to be sliced up. Take care now, buh-bye."

It is supremely hoped that he will get the hint. Otherwise, it would be quite awkward to have that I-said-yes-so-you-would-spare-my-gums talk.

Ugh

The dental technician called at work. He was told that he would be called back later (despite him never giving his phone number). The conversation ended with him cooing, "I'll talk to you later then ... pretty lady." This farewell induced a series of shuddering, cringing, and shriveling of innards.

Sucks

A twenty-something-year-old yellow gal was lying on her dentist's chair. Her mouth was agape. A dental technician was examining the inside of her mouth. They made pleasant conversation with whatever words she could sputter between his probing latex fingers. It was her second trip to the dentist this month due to a suspicious molar which the X-rays revealed just happened to be oddly shaped beneath the gum line. They joked about the city's horrible football team, the nippy weather, the half-crazed patients that he encountered, and the like.

As she lay there, nodding and gurgling responses to his questions, the dental technician paused for a second and asked, "Can I ask you a question?"

You just did, she resisted saying. "Uh huh," she gurgled.

"Do you want to get together some time?" he asked, peering over her. The metal device he held in his hand paused on her upper incisor.

"Uhh," she gurgled, feeling the cool metal rest close to the gum line. Now would not be the time to piss him off, she thought. "Uh kay" she said.

"Cool," he said. He continued probing.

Shit, she thought. She hadn't time to think of an excuse. As he carefully rinsed out her mouth and gave her a complimentary bundle of dental floss, toothpaste and an electric toothbrush, she cursed herself for saying "Uh kay." But then she thought about it. What the heck could she have said? If she rejected him, who knows what could have ensued? Would he have "accidentally" scrapped off her upper face? Hath Hell fury like a dental technician scorned? And isn't it a breach of some kind of dental technician-patient relationship to ask a patient on a date, especially if some metal device that bears an uncanny resemblance to a meat hook is poised over the patient's exposed, vulnerable gums? What could a gal do? What should have the gal done?

She mused over this predicament. He had her phone number. They were in the office records. Crap, she thought, CRAP. As he handed her the dental goods, he smiled at her and said "I'll call you."

"Ha ha," she fake-laughed, "Okay, bye."

Why is the fear of being a bitch always forcing her to be unnecessarily nice to guys? Then again, she was in a vulnerable position.

"I was under duress!" she exclaimed to her girlfriend.

"I can't believe you said yes when you didn't want to," her friend replied.

"He had a deadly weapon hovering over my face. What was I to do?"

"Point taken," her friend said. The friend sipped her tea, paused over it for a moment and said, "Sucks."

"Yeah," the gal said. "Sucks."