The other day, I was sitting in the train without a book or mp3 player to entertain me. I whipped out my cell phone and began scrolling through my address book, deleting people I no longer kept in touch with or pizza delivery places I no longer ordered from. Deleting someone from your cell phone is an interesting phenomenon. For some people, I suppose it's very perfunctory. "Never gonna talk to that person again, delete." For me, because I tend to overthink things, I wonder, "Really, am I never ever going to talk to this person ever again, ever?" (Yes, a tad dramatic. But that is what some of us do to distract ourselves from the daily monotony that is our lives.) So you never know, you just might need that taxi cab number in your cell for the next time you're in Tampa, Florida.
Of course, as I scrolled through my numbers, I inevitably encountered the entry, "Dad."
My dad got rid of his cell phone while he was alive and so I never got around to deleting it. Then after he passed away, deleting it just seemed so harsh, not to mention the last thing on my mind.
OKAY, I understand it's just an allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
But I suppose deleting his number signified the beginning of something. Something that I don't want to begin. Something uncomfortable and sad. So I tried to be perfunctory about it. Like, "Bob the Pizza guy, delete." So now it's "Dad, delete." And when my phone asked me, "Confirm Erase?" with a choice between yes and no, I couldn't help but notice the "No" option had been pre-selected, as if my cell phone were asking me, "Come on, you're not seriously thinking about deleting this entry, are you? Because if you do, it will be deleted forever. So confirm it, but I'm guessing it's 'no,' that's why I have it already selected for you."
I bit my lip, selected "Yes," and hit "Okay." And it was deleted. My cell phone was sure to display an image of an eraser moving across a floppy disk to illustrate to me that indeed, I was erasing something from the memory of my phone.
And then I began to cry. Stupid, I know. It's just a number. An allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Fly away
There is nothing quite like walking around all day, having conversations with various co-workers and fellow elevator riders, getting a cup of coffee, chatting with the Starbucks personnel, and meandering around the office to later discover that the entire time your fly was open.
Really, nothing quite like it.
Really, nothing quite like it.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Photograph
When someone completely disappears from your life, you sometimes wonder if the person was ever there to begin with. That disappearance is so stark, so sudden, that it leaves you with the feeling that maybe you hallicinated that entire experience, that entire portion of your life involving that person, and that person altogether.
But once in a while, you rummage through your closet for a book or a pen, and you happen to see an old photo of that person. With you. And you remember, yes, there was one point where you and this person co-existed. Happy even. But the picture looks so foreign, so aged, that you wonder if it's fake, or if this is someone else's photo you're looking at.
You recall distinct memories. Specific meals with bad food. The inverted umbrella at the corner of 53rd and Third. The debate on why Healthy Choice was more cardboard-tasting than Lean Cuisine.
Yes, these events had to have happened. They're in your memory. You see them, can close your eyes and relive them, the words coming from your mouth, the sound of the person's voice, the bumpy ride in the car as you rode alongside in the passenger side, your forearm warm beneath the outdoor sun. You assure yourself, you remind yourself, yes, this person used to be here. He may be gone, but he's still here.
But once in a while, you rummage through your closet for a book or a pen, and you happen to see an old photo of that person. With you. And you remember, yes, there was one point where you and this person co-existed. Happy even. But the picture looks so foreign, so aged, that you wonder if it's fake, or if this is someone else's photo you're looking at.
You recall distinct memories. Specific meals with bad food. The inverted umbrella at the corner of 53rd and Third. The debate on why Healthy Choice was more cardboard-tasting than Lean Cuisine.
Yes, these events had to have happened. They're in your memory. You see them, can close your eyes and relive them, the words coming from your mouth, the sound of the person's voice, the bumpy ride in the car as you rode alongside in the passenger side, your forearm warm beneath the outdoor sun. You assure yourself, you remind yourself, yes, this person used to be here. He may be gone, but he's still here.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Blogger's block
It feels like it's been a while since I've blogged, but it's been only a week. I think I used to blog once, twice, sometimes three times a day. I could attribute this to busier workweeks, less drama, my dating haitus, my attempt to be more zen and complain less, among other things.
Another reason to add on top of those reasons is that I've recently begun taking a writing class. It's more like a creative writing workshop, just something I do for fun, though it's costing me a pretty penny. The instructor in the first day of class showed us a stack of books his former students had published. I'm pretty sure that every student in the workshop is itching to publish a novel or screenplay. I'm also pretty sure that very few will. So I have no delusions about being a NY Times bestseller or Book Award winner. It's just interesting to "learn" about writing creatively, when all this time, I kind of just write when I want to write. I don't think about the "craft," character development, dialogue structure, conflict and resolution. It's just sort of there.
So at the end of each class, the instructor gives us a little writing exercise. He throws out a few ideas to write on (e.g., write something using the words "albino," "sex," and "supermarket," or write something about meeting someone's parents for the first time). And then for the next half hour we write.
I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I write when I feel like it. It just sort of happens. But when I was trying to force myself to think of a story with an albino having sex with a supermarket clerk, I just couldn't do it. I mean, did anyone instruct Ernest Hemingway to write about an old dude fishing? Aren't stories just inspired, or derived from events in our lives that inspire us? I suppose every author is different.
Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Although I have to admit, it does feel nice to see your writing in print, even if it is on a blog.
Another reason to add on top of those reasons is that I've recently begun taking a writing class. It's more like a creative writing workshop, just something I do for fun, though it's costing me a pretty penny. The instructor in the first day of class showed us a stack of books his former students had published. I'm pretty sure that every student in the workshop is itching to publish a novel or screenplay. I'm also pretty sure that very few will. So I have no delusions about being a NY Times bestseller or Book Award winner. It's just interesting to "learn" about writing creatively, when all this time, I kind of just write when I want to write. I don't think about the "craft," character development, dialogue structure, conflict and resolution. It's just sort of there.
So at the end of each class, the instructor gives us a little writing exercise. He throws out a few ideas to write on (e.g., write something using the words "albino," "sex," and "supermarket," or write something about meeting someone's parents for the first time). And then for the next half hour we write.
I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I write when I feel like it. It just sort of happens. But when I was trying to force myself to think of a story with an albino having sex with a supermarket clerk, I just couldn't do it. I mean, did anyone instruct Ernest Hemingway to write about an old dude fishing? Aren't stories just inspired, or derived from events in our lives that inspire us? I suppose every author is different.
Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Although I have to admit, it does feel nice to see your writing in print, even if it is on a blog.
Friday, February 02, 2007
That wasn't me
Few things are more disturbing than surfing the web and seeing a picture of a girl on the internet who looks just like you. This has happened to me a couple times, and given the plethora of Asian chicks on the web, I suppose I'm lucky to have only seen "myself" twice. Fortunately, these Yellow Gal look-alikes were doing innocuous things like smiling for a mortgage loan ad or new web service.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Spice
There are very few things I brag about. Well, let's be honest, there are very few things I can brag about. One thing though is the sit-and-reach test. I usually get sixty-something centimeters. In other words, I can almost touch my toes with my elbows without bending my knees. Another "gift" is my tongue: I can touch my nose, my cheeks and well down my chin with my tongue. So yes, I may not have been born with fantastic brains or boobs, but I can touch my toes and lick my drool.
Yet another thing I can brag about and in fact do brag about is my ability to eat spicy food. Yeah yeah, they say every Asian has some gene that enables her/him to handle the spice; but I have yet to meet anyone who could surpass me. I intimated as much once to a co-worker.
"You are the queen of spice, you say?" he laughed, mockingly.
"Yep," I said brazenly, "I am."
He laughed at me more and I stood there, smiling demurely. When lunch time came around, I took from the office fridge a bottle of habanero sauce the Naysayer had purchased for me from Mexico. As I drenched my Au Bon Pain sandwich with the green sauce, that same co-worker asked me, "Hey Yellow Gal, can I have a dab of that?"
"Sure," I said, and handed the bottle to him. As he dripped a single droplet onto the edge of his plate, I mused over the tiny opening of the bottle. I surmised there was some reason the bottle only let out one drop at a time.
My co-worker took the edge of his turkey sandwich, tentatively dipped a sharp corner of the white bread into the eerily green sauce, and took a bite. And chewed.
I continued eating my sandwich without incident when I heard a gasp. I looked at my co-worker and his skin had changed from lily white to a brilliant shade of magenta. I watched him swallow painfully and take a gulp of his Diet Pepsi. "Oh my god," he gasped, "that sauce is SPICY."
"Oh really?" I said, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess it does have 'a kick.' "
"Come ON you have to admit it's more than just 'a kick' ..." he said between gulps of his soda.
"Yeah, I guess it does," I said amused.
That was the last time he ever mocked me.
So all my friends bow down to me in my spicy superiority and dominance over all who come before me. They grow accustomed to my expected request to the waiter to make my dishes "extra extra spicy, as spicy as you can possibly make it," my unscrewing the caps to bottles of red pepper flakes so that I could pour--not sprinkle--red pepper onto my dish, and my ability to eat habaneros and Thai peppers like they were carrots or peas.
So being the spice connoisseur, I have learned that there is a distinction between spicy foods and sauces, and foods and sauces that purport to be spicy.
My first gripe: I dislike it when a food/sauce proclaims itself to be spicy when in fact it happens to contain a little more black pepper than usual, a few specs of red pepper, and a lot of salt. The food/condiment industry seems to have mistaken saltiness for spiciness. This is simply wrong. Salt is salt. Black pepper is black pepper. Red pepper is red pepper. Simply adding Red No. 3, a fleck of red pepper, and a ton of salt does not transform a sauce into "hot sauce."
A corollary to this gripe involves the vinegar ingredient. I used to be a huge Tabasco sauce fan in high school and in college. After going through a bottle a month for several years, I frankly got sick of it. I later realized that while Tabasco sauce does contain a modicum of spiciness, its vinegar and salt overwhelms the red pepper ingredient, such that any food you happen to season with Tabasco sauce tastes like Tabasco sauce, not steak, not spaghetti, not soup. Just Tabasco sauce. I'd rather have beef that's spicy, not beef that tastes like solidified Tabasco sauce.
The better sauces have more habaneros or Thai chili peppers (as opposed to mere jalapenos or cayenne), less salt, and less vinegar. The lack of salt and vinegar allow the natural flavors of the underlying food to come through.
Okay so as you can tell, I love spicy food. I was reminded of this fact at 5 PM today. The day was waning, and I started getting the shakes. My palms began to sweat. What was going on?
Then I realized it: I hadn't consumed any spiciness all day. The absence was palpable, almost unbearable. I grabbed a cup of microwaveable soup from my stash, microwaved it, and once the microwave beeped, I seized the bowl and dribbled some of my green habanero sauce into it. The warmth on my tongue was most welcoming. It hurt so good.
So it looks like I am a walking contradiction. I am both the master of, and yet a slave to, the Spice.
Yet another thing I can brag about and in fact do brag about is my ability to eat spicy food. Yeah yeah, they say every Asian has some gene that enables her/him to handle the spice; but I have yet to meet anyone who could surpass me. I intimated as much once to a co-worker.
"You are the queen of spice, you say?" he laughed, mockingly.
"Yep," I said brazenly, "I am."
He laughed at me more and I stood there, smiling demurely. When lunch time came around, I took from the office fridge a bottle of habanero sauce the Naysayer had purchased for me from Mexico. As I drenched my Au Bon Pain sandwich with the green sauce, that same co-worker asked me, "Hey Yellow Gal, can I have a dab of that?"
"Sure," I said, and handed the bottle to him. As he dripped a single droplet onto the edge of his plate, I mused over the tiny opening of the bottle. I surmised there was some reason the bottle only let out one drop at a time.
My co-worker took the edge of his turkey sandwich, tentatively dipped a sharp corner of the white bread into the eerily green sauce, and took a bite. And chewed.
I continued eating my sandwich without incident when I heard a gasp. I looked at my co-worker and his skin had changed from lily white to a brilliant shade of magenta. I watched him swallow painfully and take a gulp of his Diet Pepsi. "Oh my god," he gasped, "that sauce is SPICY."
"Oh really?" I said, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess it does have 'a kick.' "
"Come ON you have to admit it's more than just 'a kick' ..." he said between gulps of his soda.
"Yeah, I guess it does," I said amused.
That was the last time he ever mocked me.
So all my friends bow down to me in my spicy superiority and dominance over all who come before me. They grow accustomed to my expected request to the waiter to make my dishes "extra extra spicy, as spicy as you can possibly make it," my unscrewing the caps to bottles of red pepper flakes so that I could pour--not sprinkle--red pepper onto my dish, and my ability to eat habaneros and Thai peppers like they were carrots or peas.
So being the spice connoisseur, I have learned that there is a distinction between spicy foods and sauces, and foods and sauces that purport to be spicy.
My first gripe: I dislike it when a food/sauce proclaims itself to be spicy when in fact it happens to contain a little more black pepper than usual, a few specs of red pepper, and a lot of salt. The food/condiment industry seems to have mistaken saltiness for spiciness. This is simply wrong. Salt is salt. Black pepper is black pepper. Red pepper is red pepper. Simply adding Red No. 3, a fleck of red pepper, and a ton of salt does not transform a sauce into "hot sauce."
A corollary to this gripe involves the vinegar ingredient. I used to be a huge Tabasco sauce fan in high school and in college. After going through a bottle a month for several years, I frankly got sick of it. I later realized that while Tabasco sauce does contain a modicum of spiciness, its vinegar and salt overwhelms the red pepper ingredient, such that any food you happen to season with Tabasco sauce tastes like Tabasco sauce, not steak, not spaghetti, not soup. Just Tabasco sauce. I'd rather have beef that's spicy, not beef that tastes like solidified Tabasco sauce.
The better sauces have more habaneros or Thai chili peppers (as opposed to mere jalapenos or cayenne), less salt, and less vinegar. The lack of salt and vinegar allow the natural flavors of the underlying food to come through.
Okay so as you can tell, I love spicy food. I was reminded of this fact at 5 PM today. The day was waning, and I started getting the shakes. My palms began to sweat. What was going on?
Then I realized it: I hadn't consumed any spiciness all day. The absence was palpable, almost unbearable. I grabbed a cup of microwaveable soup from my stash, microwaved it, and once the microwave beeped, I seized the bowl and dribbled some of my green habanero sauce into it. The warmth on my tongue was most welcoming. It hurt so good.
So it looks like I am a walking contradiction. I am both the master of, and yet a slave to, the Spice.
Monday, January 29, 2007
My spam box rocks
Case in point:
He dreamed of Annie Wilkes in the court of some fabulous Arabian caliph, conjuring imps and genies from bottles and then flying around the court on a magic carpet. Its only five in the afternoon, but that is no problem for these kitties; as far as South American lions are concerned, that dinner-at-eight shit is for goofballs.Who makes this ish up?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Just a tip
Fellas, never, ever send a desperate, needy email to a girl you really like who doesn't like you back at all and include in the email things like the following:
I do and will always love and lust after you from this moment until the end of time, for ever and ever. If you ever change your mind about us, and, in my endeavor to deserve you, you decide to give me a chance, I will forever be grateful and will be here for you with open arms. Until then, I will always cherish the memories I have of us and will thank God that I at least had the chance to know someone as beautiful, wonderful and sexy as you.If you do send such an email to a girl, she will forward it to her girlfriends, and her girlfriends will forward it to their girlfriends, and one of these latter girlfriends will post portions of your email in her blog. Chances are, fellas, that such an email will not persuade the girl to fall in love with you. So please, don't do it.
It goes.
She had a problem. A mindset problem. It's something she knew she could fix. She just needed to want to fix it. The solution to her problem was simple: Just let it go. Her problem was similarly simple: Little things irritated her.
The little things varied in scope. It could be the guy pushing the "close" button from inside the elevator incessantly even though he sees her running towards the elevator yelling "Hold the door!" or a co-worker rolling his eyes at her because she put a little too much skim in his grande americano. "Let it go," she would think to herself. "Just let it go."
"But hold on a sec," she would think, "What the F? It's not the little thing that's irritating me, it's the principle! And that person is just wrong."
Negativity appeared to be contagious. So a part of her wondered, Why did she let it get to her instead of letting it go? Did she enjoy being pissy and irritable? No. Then why the heck did she dwell on the elevator guy or grande americano dude?
Then she realized it. She was holding onto her irritation. Clung to it, actually, like a bratty baby. In a world where she had absolutely no control, where small acts of meanness just grinded against her mood like sandpaper, the only way she could exert some semblance of control was to be mad back. Being angry was a way to avoid being the victim and doormat to the world's bitchiness. Anger was proud, self-righteous and, most importantly, justified.
But that mindset was not healthy and probably not the path to happiness, much less world peace. Negativity was not only contagious, but virtually epidemic nowadays. So instead of allowing it to breed, she resolved to just let it stop where it began. Let the elevator door close. Let the eyes roll. Let it go.
Just let it go.
The little things varied in scope. It could be the guy pushing the "close" button from inside the elevator incessantly even though he sees her running towards the elevator yelling "Hold the door!" or a co-worker rolling his eyes at her because she put a little too much skim in his grande americano. "Let it go," she would think to herself. "Just let it go."
"But hold on a sec," she would think, "What the F? It's not the little thing that's irritating me, it's the principle! And that person is just wrong."
Negativity appeared to be contagious. So a part of her wondered, Why did she let it get to her instead of letting it go? Did she enjoy being pissy and irritable? No. Then why the heck did she dwell on the elevator guy or grande americano dude?
Then she realized it. She was holding onto her irritation. Clung to it, actually, like a bratty baby. In a world where she had absolutely no control, where small acts of meanness just grinded against her mood like sandpaper, the only way she could exert some semblance of control was to be mad back. Being angry was a way to avoid being the victim and doormat to the world's bitchiness. Anger was proud, self-righteous and, most importantly, justified.
But that mindset was not healthy and probably not the path to happiness, much less world peace. Negativity was not only contagious, but virtually epidemic nowadays. So instead of allowing it to breed, she resolved to just let it stop where it began. Let the elevator door close. Let the eyes roll. Let it go.
Just let it go.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The test
I really want to be happy. Really I do. And that means I should adjust my attitude. Be less self-focused. Put myself in other people's shoes. And once I understand where other people are coming from, and try -- really try -- to be patient, I'll be less aggravated by the rampant stupidity of the general population and be happier.
So as I mentioned before, I don't like my friend's boyfriend. My challenge to myself is this: Try to like him. Get to know him. Who knows, maybe he'll win me over the way he won over my friend.
Now simply setting forth the goal of liking an unlikeable guy is one thing. Putting it into practice is another. I was tested when I had, a couple days ago, asked my friend to dinner for tapas. She said sure. Then later on, the Test materialized:
First, she called me up later asking if she could bring her boyfriend. I mentally grimaced, cringed and shuddered; but I said sure. Maybe, just maybe if I gave him another chance, he'd grow on me and undo the first ten negative impressions he made on me with undeniable charm and good-naturedness.
Then, she said that her boyfriend was actually looking to try Moroccan food.
Now, I love Moroccan food. But I've been craving tapas for the past few days. Hence, my invitation to dinner for tapas.
So this boyfriend who I am trying very hard to like has already (1) interloped in my gal pal time with my gal pal, while simulteaneously creating the very real possibility of third-wheel-dom, and (2) supplanted my suggestion of tapas with his suggestion of Moroccan food. Of course, my friend ends each suggestion with some generic useless statement of "only if you want to."
As I mentioned before, this is a test. An exercise. First, there is the question of how to tactfully say something to the effect of "I don't want to eat with your annoying-as-hell boyfriend and I want my tapas, damnit, not Moroccan food, not Cambodian food, not Somalian food, but frigging tapas damnit!" Second, there is the question of whether I'm purposely being difficult because I don't want to like the guy.
Okay I admit. I am being difficult. And really, there are worse things in the world than having a friend who wants you to get along with her irritating boyfriend and eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
So this is my test. Have dinner with a guy I can't stand. Be a third un-squeaky wheel. And eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
The pathway to happiness begins.
So as I mentioned before, I don't like my friend's boyfriend. My challenge to myself is this: Try to like him. Get to know him. Who knows, maybe he'll win me over the way he won over my friend.
Now simply setting forth the goal of liking an unlikeable guy is one thing. Putting it into practice is another. I was tested when I had, a couple days ago, asked my friend to dinner for tapas. She said sure. Then later on, the Test materialized:
First, she called me up later asking if she could bring her boyfriend. I mentally grimaced, cringed and shuddered; but I said sure. Maybe, just maybe if I gave him another chance, he'd grow on me and undo the first ten negative impressions he made on me with undeniable charm and good-naturedness.
Then, she said that her boyfriend was actually looking to try Moroccan food.
Now, I love Moroccan food. But I've been craving tapas for the past few days. Hence, my invitation to dinner for tapas.
So this boyfriend who I am trying very hard to like has already (1) interloped in my gal pal time with my gal pal, while simulteaneously creating the very real possibility of third-wheel-dom, and (2) supplanted my suggestion of tapas with his suggestion of Moroccan food. Of course, my friend ends each suggestion with some generic useless statement of "only if you want to."
As I mentioned before, this is a test. An exercise. First, there is the question of how to tactfully say something to the effect of "I don't want to eat with your annoying-as-hell boyfriend and I want my tapas, damnit, not Moroccan food, not Cambodian food, not Somalian food, but frigging tapas damnit!" Second, there is the question of whether I'm purposely being difficult because I don't want to like the guy.
Okay I admit. I am being difficult. And really, there are worse things in the world than having a friend who wants you to get along with her irritating boyfriend and eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
So this is my test. Have dinner with a guy I can't stand. Be a third un-squeaky wheel. And eat Moroccan food instead of tapas.
The pathway to happiness begins.
Monday, January 08, 2007
That's me
Once again, I exhibit utmost sophistication and grace when, after briefly talking with my boss, I discover I had a piece of muffin -- a piece that does not look entirely unlike snot -- clinging to the tip of my nose.
Sophistication and grace, my friends, sophistication and grace.
Sophistication and grace, my friends, sophistication and grace.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Bum-licious
I've been chillin' like a villain with my mom, my bro, and the two resident kittens (one of which is Billy, hater of baths) in the idyllic burb I grew up in. I think my mom really enjoys taking care of two kittens. As she has indicated to both me and my bro, she really wants grandchildren. I suppose the kitties will have to serve as surrogates.
So for the last week, I have literally been doing nothing. And it's great. Sleeping 11 hours a day, surfing the web, reading for pleasure, watching DVDs, jogging in the park, and eating artery-clogging, unhealthy food. It makes me wonder why the phrase "lazy bum" has such a negative connotation, when in reality, it is a magnificent lifestyle. At least, a magnificent reprieve from the mound of work that awaits me in my office in the Big Big City.
Yet as the day of my return approaches, I feel the weight of the work that was due last month press upon me. I resisted checking my work email until this afternoon. Nothing of note, thank goodness.
So this has been my week off. Time to turn the work dial to "on."
So for the last week, I have literally been doing nothing. And it's great. Sleeping 11 hours a day, surfing the web, reading for pleasure, watching DVDs, jogging in the park, and eating artery-clogging, unhealthy food. It makes me wonder why the phrase "lazy bum" has such a negative connotation, when in reality, it is a magnificent lifestyle. At least, a magnificent reprieve from the mound of work that awaits me in my office in the Big Big City.
Yet as the day of my return approaches, I feel the weight of the work that was due last month press upon me. I resisted checking my work email until this afternoon. Nothing of note, thank goodness.
So this has been my week off. Time to turn the work dial to "on."
Monday, December 25, 2006
The Bath
Billy the cat did not want to be bathed. He was going to be bathed and he knew as much, but he really did not want to be bathed. In particular, he did not want to be submerged in a bin of lukewarm water where two hands would violate him in the most violating way by rubbing anti-flea shampoo into his coat and rinsing it.
Billy knew it was a day of The Bath as soon as he heard the sounds of a faucet turning on and water running into a bin. Two familiar arms wrapped around his body and lifted him up. There ain't no way, Billy thought to himself, ain't no way! The Bath was as inevitable as a trip to the litter box, but he knew he had to at least try to escape. And so, as the splashing sound of running water became too much to bear, Billy made a break for it.
Exhibiting super-feline strength, he pried apart the arms that held him and immediately climbed the shoulders of the person carrying him, ears fully perked, whiskers fully raised. This is it, he though, his heart thumping in his perked ears, my escape! Yet before he could pounce off the shoulders into the great beyond, the hands firmly grasped his flank, and repositioned him. And before he knew it, he felt the sickening sensation of warm water surrounding his hind legs and he realized with horror that he was in The Bath.
As warm water tricked down his back and ran down his shoulders, he never stopped trying to escape his foamy fate. He nudged his nose through the curtain of the bathtub, his eyes blinking wildly, hoping that he could escape the two hands that held him firmly in his bath. But each time he stretched his neck, the hand would pull him back to The Bath, the warm, sudsy bath where an unintelligible voice would speak to him, words of another species that, for the time being, he hated so much for subjecting him to the indignity of wet fur and artificially fragrant anti-flea shampoo.
Indeed, Billy hated The Bath. Yet afterwards, he would be lifted into a soft white towel where he was tousled and was allowed to run freely and compose himself by properly grooming the feline fro The Bath undoubtedly created.
No hard feelings, Billy thought to himself as he licked his left paw. They do it because they care. Another lick to the paw.
Plus, next time, I will escape.
Billy knew it was a day of The Bath as soon as he heard the sounds of a faucet turning on and water running into a bin. Two familiar arms wrapped around his body and lifted him up. There ain't no way, Billy thought to himself, ain't no way! The Bath was as inevitable as a trip to the litter box, but he knew he had to at least try to escape. And so, as the splashing sound of running water became too much to bear, Billy made a break for it.
Exhibiting super-feline strength, he pried apart the arms that held him and immediately climbed the shoulders of the person carrying him, ears fully perked, whiskers fully raised. This is it, he though, his heart thumping in his perked ears, my escape! Yet before he could pounce off the shoulders into the great beyond, the hands firmly grasped his flank, and repositioned him. And before he knew it, he felt the sickening sensation of warm water surrounding his hind legs and he realized with horror that he was in The Bath.
As warm water tricked down his back and ran down his shoulders, he never stopped trying to escape his foamy fate. He nudged his nose through the curtain of the bathtub, his eyes blinking wildly, hoping that he could escape the two hands that held him firmly in his bath. But each time he stretched his neck, the hand would pull him back to The Bath, the warm, sudsy bath where an unintelligible voice would speak to him, words of another species that, for the time being, he hated so much for subjecting him to the indignity of wet fur and artificially fragrant anti-flea shampoo.
Indeed, Billy hated The Bath. Yet afterwards, he would be lifted into a soft white towel where he was tousled and was allowed to run freely and compose himself by properly grooming the feline fro The Bath undoubtedly created.
No hard feelings, Billy thought to himself as he licked his left paw. They do it because they care. Another lick to the paw.
Plus, next time, I will escape.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
It's a lovely river in Egypt
I looked in the mirror the other day and saw that I looked like an old woman, one of those old Asian women with the plastic bags who hunch over their slippers and crouch on the sidewalk with their hands linked behind their backs. I contemplated changing my blog headline to "Musings of an Asian American Hag." But I won't. I realized that the recent advent of stress and angst had something to do with my looking like shit. So I have decided to make myself happy. Throughout this weekend, whenever the weight of work started to creep into my mind, I pushed it off my chest and told myself, "I'm not going to think about it." The guilt of not having done a single lick of work either Saturday or Sunday was also summarily pushed aside. This was my weekend. Work and Guilt owned me for the past three months. They will not own me now.
I will also make it my goal to be more faithful to my workout routine (which, due to work and lack of motivation, has been nonexistent). I also hear exercise is great at alleviating stress and angst.
There is something to be said for these defense mechanisms, like repression or denial. On this Sunday evening, I am going to pretend I have absolutely nothing to do. And enjoy it.
I will also make it my goal to be more faithful to my workout routine (which, due to work and lack of motivation, has been nonexistent). I also hear exercise is great at alleviating stress and angst.
There is something to be said for these defense mechanisms, like repression or denial. On this Sunday evening, I am going to pretend I have absolutely nothing to do. And enjoy it.
Ain't no party like a holiday party
There is nothing quite as painful as going to a holiday party full of fifty to a hundred lawyers dressed in aptly stiff suits. I saw them and talked with them and they responded to and in turn asked questions. So they seemed like they were human. They breathed. They ate. And I assume they had pulses. But beyond their trite quips, pseudointellectual banter, and plastered smiles, I wondered, was there anything more? Were they really human?
To further my investigation, I consumed three glasses of Cabernet which had the pleasant side-effect of numbing my pain and forced myself to talk to these seemingly human things.
It was amazing. These "people," they were completely hollow. Empty walking things that appeared to be humans, but were in fact not. Is this what thirty years of practicing law did to a person? Suck their souls and leave only a collection of self-important anecdotes in the husk of their former selves?
In one of the more interesting five-second conversations, one of the seemingly human things shook my hand and asked, "What may I ask is your name?"
"Yellow Gal," I replied, forcing a smile.
"Ah, Yellow Gal," it replied, "What a remarkable name!"
"Uh, thanks," I replied, thinking it was quite unremarkable. I looked around the room and realized the gray-haired thing probably never encountered a Yellow attorney before and thought any name resembling Yellowness was akin to "Lotus Blossom" or "Mandarin Orange."
After five or six-hundred of these short conversations, I realized my initial conclusions were correct. But I became even more curious. How did they do it? Were they really this vapid, through-and-through? Were they at one point, real humans who became the undead? Or were these real humans posing as the undead posing as humans to blend in with the undead?
Soon, the mind-numbing effect of the party coupled with the numbing wine gave way to a headache. I was feeling pain -- this meant I was alive. This meant I was at least human.
At least for now.
To further my investigation, I consumed three glasses of Cabernet which had the pleasant side-effect of numbing my pain and forced myself to talk to these seemingly human things.
It was amazing. These "people," they were completely hollow. Empty walking things that appeared to be humans, but were in fact not. Is this what thirty years of practicing law did to a person? Suck their souls and leave only a collection of self-important anecdotes in the husk of their former selves?
In one of the more interesting five-second conversations, one of the seemingly human things shook my hand and asked, "What may I ask is your name?"
"Yellow Gal," I replied, forcing a smile.
"Ah, Yellow Gal," it replied, "What a remarkable name!"
"Uh, thanks," I replied, thinking it was quite unremarkable. I looked around the room and realized the gray-haired thing probably never encountered a Yellow attorney before and thought any name resembling Yellowness was akin to "Lotus Blossom" or "Mandarin Orange."
After five or six-hundred of these short conversations, I realized my initial conclusions were correct. But I became even more curious. How did they do it? Were they really this vapid, through-and-through? Were they at one point, real humans who became the undead? Or were these real humans posing as the undead posing as humans to blend in with the undead?
Soon, the mind-numbing effect of the party coupled with the numbing wine gave way to a headache. I was feeling pain -- this meant I was alive. This meant I was at least human.
At least for now.
It's a river in Egypt
I really dislike my friend's boyfriend. I REALLY dislike him. I won't delve too much into the reasons, except to say that (1) when I first met him, he made a somewhat racist "joke" about Asian women (which as everyone here knows, I absolutely LOVE), and (2) every time I speak with him or hear him speak of me to my friend, he remarks on something about me that pisses me off.
But my other gal pal advises that I not say anything to that effect, because it will strain the friendship unnecessarily. And I must admit, the boyfriend makes my friend pretty happy, he treats her well, and neither of them should have to be subjected to my knee-jerk, over-PC hypersensitivity.
Then a part of me wonders, maybe it's not him I necessarily dislike. Maybe the issue is my being single. Maybe I'm just jealous and I just can't take the fact that someone who goes out with only a few guys in the last few months finds a great guy, and I, having been on a dating rampage for the past few months, can't find just one good guy. Maybe I'm suppressing my jealousy because it reveals how insecure and weak I am. And she's one of my closest friends--what kind of friend would harbor any negative feelings solely because her friend is happy? How horrible and selfish is that?
Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize, nah. The guy really is an asshole.
But my other gal pal advises that I not say anything to that effect, because it will strain the friendship unnecessarily. And I must admit, the boyfriend makes my friend pretty happy, he treats her well, and neither of them should have to be subjected to my knee-jerk, over-PC hypersensitivity.
Then a part of me wonders, maybe it's not him I necessarily dislike. Maybe the issue is my being single. Maybe I'm just jealous and I just can't take the fact that someone who goes out with only a few guys in the last few months finds a great guy, and I, having been on a dating rampage for the past few months, can't find just one good guy. Maybe I'm suppressing my jealousy because it reveals how insecure and weak I am. And she's one of my closest friends--what kind of friend would harbor any negative feelings solely because her friend is happy? How horrible and selfish is that?
Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize, nah. The guy really is an asshole.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
An almost-lapse in judgment
Just when I decided to take a haitus on dating and definitively write off 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable men (such as very very cute guy), today of all days I get a text from the guy referenced in my post, Fun boys, who is another 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable man. His timing couldn't be more perfect, given my present vulnerable state. I was actually tempted to text him back. Maybe he's changed, I rationalized, he must really really like me if he's texting me, maybe he's realized the error of his ways!
Right.
You know, for someone who purports to have a three-digit IQ, I can sometimes be really stupid. At any rate, I did not text him back. But I can't say I wasn't tempted.
Right.
You know, for someone who purports to have a three-digit IQ, I can sometimes be really stupid. At any rate, I did not text him back. But I can't say I wasn't tempted.
It never ends
My blog seems to have inadvertently become a running tally of funny things that guys do or don't do. To add to the list:
My South Asian friend was in a bar with some friends. A white guy walked up to her, gazed at her for a moment, and cooed, "You're exotic and erotic."
Dude's a poet and didn't know it!
Another incident was when I was at a (different) bar and I felt a guy tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
"Hi," he said, smiling.
"Hi," I replied, musing over his greasy pony-tail.
"Are you Chinese?"
"No," I said.
"Are you Japanese?"
"No," I said.
"Well, I know one thing you are -- beautiful."
"Uhh, ha ha," I said in a half-grimace, "thanks." Then I turned around and resumed talking to my friend.
Keep 'em coming, guys, keep 'em coming.
My South Asian friend was in a bar with some friends. A white guy walked up to her, gazed at her for a moment, and cooed, "You're exotic and erotic."
Dude's a poet and didn't know it!
Another incident was when I was at a (different) bar and I felt a guy tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
"Hi," he said, smiling.
"Hi," I replied, musing over his greasy pony-tail.
"Are you Chinese?"
"No," I said.
"Are you Japanese?"
"No," I said.
"Well, I know one thing you are -- beautiful."
"Uhh, ha ha," I said in a half-grimace, "thanks." Then I turned around and resumed talking to my friend.
Keep 'em coming, guys, keep 'em coming.
That's me
I find it amusing that when someone did a google search for "dating debacles," my blog came up as a search result. Come one, come all -- I am a repository of dating debacles.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Another inane quiz result
I always thought I had the "perfect" accent. Oh well.
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak. | |
| Philadelphia | |
| Boston | |
| The Inland North | |
| The Midland | |
| The South | |
| The West | |
| North Central | |
| What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz | |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
