The unmentionable stereotype

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Out of the club

So went the "girls' night out." It was "okay," for the most part.

The thing was, I felt mostly left out.

A core group of the girls were single and chatted nonstop about boys, single life, and dating standards. I tried to chime in when I could, but because I am apparently no longer a card-carrying member of the Single Girls' Club, my opinions were largely disregarded.

Hello, I still remember what it was like to date. Doesn't that earn me some street cred? It's been a few years, but still!

It also didn't help that I wasn't as tight with some of the more vocal single girls. I suppose every group has that dynamic.

Anyhow, the topics covered included, among other things, male pattern baldness, height, race, chivalry, wealth, penis length, physical attractiveness, and social retardation. Only one of the girls actually posed a question to me, "So how's wedding planning?"

When one of the girls mentioned her sister was pregnant, I was the only one who exclaimed, "Oh my god, that's wonderful!" The other ladies looked at her with concerted indifference, as if she were reciting the weather forecast from two weeks ago.

So in the end, it was fine. But being the only girl with a ring on my finger that evening, I felt a bit...alienated. I suppose when one door opens, another door closes, and I can no longer partake in the excitement and glamor of modern single life. I can only sit in the periphery of a booth table at a bar and listen nostalgically to angst-ridden, inside-joke-laden stories of the single life I've already lived.

Um, maybe not

A girlfriend just informed us that she invited a few guys out to the bar tonight.

Um, I thought this was a girls' thing?

Also, she joked that a couple of the other single girls might be inviting their "male acquaintances." Once again, the opposite sex finds ways of infiltrating our free time.

Oh, and it gets better: one of the guys who is coming out tonight is someone I went on a few dates with a few years ago who was a really bad kisser. Oh and he might bring a "female friend" with him too.

Should be FUN! After discovering all these men were coming/invited tonight, I invited the Fiance along, but he declined. For some reason, he'd rather stay at home and watch TV rather than come out with a gaggle of girls and their random male connections. The fact that I briefly dated one of these dudes didn't even faze him.

Now, instead of a girls' night out, it's a girls-meeting-up-with-random-guys' night out.

So much for my grand notion of having my own golden girls.

Friday night

Tomorrow night is going to be a "girls' night out." We're watching a show, we're eating wings, and we're drinking 'til god knows when. It's been a while since I've had a girls' night out.

In the last several years, my social circle has predictably dwindled to my sig other. And now that marriage, children and a two-car garage are on the horizon, the prospect of going to a bar and ogling/turning down the advances of strange men doesn't sound as exciting to me as it did before.

Man, I'm old.

The other night, I was having a nice dinner with the Fiance, when I noticed a table across the room where three gray-haired ladies were enjoying their meals. I watched them banter, sip their red wine, and laugh hysterically. They seemed to transform into high school girls. It looked like the kind of friendship that had weathered decades of heartache, drama with the in-laws, teenage children, and mortgage payments.

I wondered to myself, am I going to have my own golden girls? Will I still be having a girls' night out in my sixties, except eating medium rare steak with red wine instead of wings with beer?

One can only hope. So, in spite of my newfound homebody-ness, I am going out. Not all out.

But out with the girls.

Acceptance of props

I suspect that as a woman, I have a hard time accepting props. I read somewhere that when someone compliments you, you shouldn't argue with the complimenter. Just accept the compliment and say "Thank you."

Some examples:

Coworker says: "Wow, you did a great job writing that memo."

Instead of saying: "Oh, no, it was a really easy subject, so it didn't require that much effort or intelligence to begin with, plus I had a lot of help from ten other people."

One should say: "Thank you. I'm glad I could help out the team."

Friend says: "Oh my god, your new haircut looks amazing!"

Instead of saying, "Oh, no, it's a little lopsided, and it makes random wavy hair look even wavier, not to mention it shows how thin my hair is and emphasizes my big forehead."

One should say: "Thank you. I like it too!"

I got a lot better at accepting props with time. Once in a while, I'll get props that I don't think I deserve. So sometimes I literally have to stop and remind myself to say "Thank you."

By arguing with the complimenter, you are: (1) putting yourself down and making yourself look worse, and (2) calling the complimenter a liar. Sometimes my friends argue with me when I compliment them, and it frustrates me.

So when someone says you're awesome, it means you're awesome, damnit. Accept the props!

Don't know, don't care

I saw a commercial for a search website the other day. A woman was sitting on the couch with her laptop. While surfing the web, she clicked on something and suddenly discovered that several people were searching for her. Her face instantly lit up and she exclaimed something to the effect of: "All of these people are searching for me? Wow!"

Wow indeed. You have a bunch of stalkers.

Okay okay, not all people who search for someone are necessarily stalkers. We've all probably been guilty of googling folks, unbeknownst to them.

Interestingly though, there are a quite few websites that search for those who are searching for you:

http://www.whoissearchingforme.com/
http://people411search.com/
http://who-me.com/

Honestly though, I don't think I would ever sign up for that kind of search service. I don't want to know if people are searching for me. I don't care if it's an ex-boyfriend, some guy I had a huge crush on in high school, an old friend I lost touch with, or someone from the missed connections page from Craigslist. If they are important to me, I am already in touch with them.

Which brings me to an interesting thing I just learned. I was on LinkedIn, just checking up on my contacts, when I decided to view my profile. On the lower right hand corner of my profile page, there was a box that read, "Viewers of this profile also viewed..." and listed other random people who may or may not be connected to me.

I then saw a name that looked strange to me. I clicked on it, and it was obviously a fabricated LinkedIn page (zero connections, nonsensical name, fake employer name). However, I saw just enough clues to realize who it was: Some crazy dude I had a fling with years ago.

Now, perhaps, it was some random third party who happened to view my profile and this other fake profile. But remembering how crazy the guy was back then, I knew better. He had created a fake profile and was looking at my profile.

Needless to say, it freaked me out just a little. In terms of level of freaked-out-ness, it wasn't quite the "Oh crap, I'm pregnant!"-level, but closer to the "Oh crap, I left my passport on the airplane"-level. Harmless, nothing life-altering, but creepy nonetheless.

The question is, why create this fake profile, only to plant those clues for me to see? He picked a fake name that was eerily similar to his name. And the fake employer name was also a permutation of his employer's name. So instead of "Bill Gates" working at "Microsoft," it said "Williamford Tages" working at "Macroshaft." If he wanted to completely hide his identity, why didn't he make it "John Smith" working at "Smith, Inc."? What would it accomplish to give me clues that he was searching for me? And why is he looking me up years later?

It's a little creepy because the flingship ended pretty badly -- lots of drama, lots of hard feelings, lots of third parties getting involved, which bloomed into more drama. To this day, it remains a black mark on my permanent dating record.

So, seriously, this -- [insert vehement hand-gesturing] -- is why I don't need to know if someone is searching for me. Because it raises all of these unanswerable questions. Questions I don't want to think about. Questions I don't want to know the answers to.

Which leads me to my next point: Don't you wish you could take all the people you dated in the past, and transport them into another dimension where you would never have to see (or worry about seeing) them again? This is a little more humane than hoping they were all dead. They would all be unscathed, but in a separate universe where you would be completely unbothered from eery LinkedIn search results, Facebook friend suggestions, or accidental/misdialed phone calls.

I know the universe does not revolve around me, but if it did and I were omnipotent, that would be one of the first tweaks I'd make to existence. (God, if you are listening, this is a hint.)

"Hierarchies"

I saw a bit a while ago from Carlos Mencia on Asians. Mencia is unapologetically irreverent and a self-described "equal opportunity offender." If you're offended by ethnic slurs, then you should probably not listen to his comedy, nor should you continue reading this blog entry.

**Please be warned that I type out racist slurs in this blog entry, and I do so as quotations only, and not in the pejorative sense.**

In one show, Mencia spoke about the apparent hierarchy among Asians, using some pretty strong ethnic slurs, which I will quote. According to Mencia, the Chinese were at the "top" of the Asian hierarchy, while the Vietnamese were "pretty much niggers of the community." He said that Filipinos were the "beaners" of the Asian community because they're "just like [Mexicans] - [they]'re indigenous people that got banged by some Spaniards."

I wondered about his categorizations. Is there a hierarchy of Asian ethnicities in the general Asian community?

I'd say so.

My Korean friend was dating a non-Korean Asian guy and was a little nervous about telling her parents about him. Finally, one day she told her mom, "I'm dating someone Asian...but not Korean."

Her mom paused for a moment, sensing something in my friend's voice. "I can tell by the way you tell me that he is either Filipino or Vietnamese."

He was Vietnamese.

My friend from law school (who is Caucasian) once hosted a Japanese exchange student during college. He told me how eager he was to show her their town's local Asian supermarket. They drove into the parking lot of the supermarket, which was apparently Chinese. The student suddenly changed her mind and did not want to go inside. He had no idea why.

I interrupted him and said, "Is it because she thought it was 'dirty'?"

He looked at me, startled, and said, "That's exactly what she said. She said because it was Chinese, it was dirty. I was totally shocked."

My friend (a Filipina gal) was chatting with a Chinese dude, and he actually "ranked" the Asian ethnicities. #1: Chinese, #2: Japanese, #3: Korean...and at the bottom were the Filipinos. (Yes, he said it to her face.) I have heard other Asians say that the Vietnamese were at the bottom.

From what I've seen and heard, the racist Asian hierarchy seems to place the East Asians (Koreans, Japanese, and Chinese) at the top, and the Southeast Asians (Vietnamese, Cambodians, Filipinos, etc.) at the bottom. The South Asians (Indians, Pakistani's, etc.) are around the bottom too.

For a population that is stereotypically smart and educated, we can be pretty racist and ignorant. I think some of the most racist comments I have heard firsthand were from Asian Americans. We're not only racist against other races, we're racist against ourselves!

But when you think about it, aren't there racist hierarchies among other races? An African American coworker was talking to me about the African American community. She was very very light-skinned and told me how there was a divide between darker-skinned women and lighter-skinned women like herself. I heard a radio talk show host, who was light-skinned as well, talk about how he experienced the same disparity when he was in college.

And I don't need to mention Chris Rock's controversial bit on "Niggas vs. Black People."

I would venture to guess there is even a "hierarchy" among European ethnicities. In the U.S. at least, I would say that, if there were a perceived hierarchy, those of English or German ancestry look down on those of Irish, Scottish or Italian ancestry. And aren't the Aryan features of blond hair and blue eyes superior to those of the brown-eyed brunettes?

I don't think any of this racism (or "ethnicism") will go away anytime soon.

In the end, I guess every race - regardless of which race - is an equal opportunity racist.

So I think I made my coworker cry.

Not intentionally of course. But I had to review some of her work product. And, quite frankly, there were a lot of mistakes.

I began marking up her work with a red pen because that is my default color to use when correcting mistakes. But then there were so many mistakes, the ink began to run together, so I began using a green pen. I also used a yellow highlighter to mark the fields of the work that were deficient. It took me a few hours to mark up, and in the end the entire mark-up looked like a red, yellow, and green mess. I left it on her desk so that she would see it the first thing the next morning.

OKAY SO I KNOW what it's like to work hard on something and have it returned to you bleeding with mark-ups. You get pissed off. You feel defensive. It's personal because this is your work and someone else is criticizing it. I get it. I've had it done to me. But if I wrote "1 + 1 = 3," and someone crosses out the 3 and puts a 2, I might not be happy about it, but I get it.

Anyhow, the next morning, I could tell my coworker was a little pissed. There were instructions about the project that the supervisor never relayed to her. In fact, some misinformation was communicated to her, which forced her to redo a lot of her work.

I felt bad. And even apologized to her for giving her so much work to do. She said it wasn't my fault, just some misinformation was communicated to her, and she was frustrated.

Anyhow, I walked by her desk later in the afternoon. She was talking to another coworker, and I saw that her face was bright red. She blew her nose and dabbed her face quickly, but I saw a couple tears fall down her cheek.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" I said. The other coworker looked at me and smiled sympathetically.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just having a bad day. Stressed at work, things going on at home. Whatever, I'll get over it." She blew her nose again.

I felt bad. "Oh, I'm sorry." I didn't know what to say. I wasn't that close with her, but I felt really bad that she was feeling so crummy. I almost felt guilty for being so harsh on her work, but I had to be - if I didn't, the end work product would have been patently defective.

So yeah. That was my first time being on the other side of the fence.

Bleh.

RSVP no

I've noticed that some people like to feel victimized. When something doesn't go their way, or some mishap befalls them, they curl into a fetal position and bemoan how the cruel, unfair world is out to get them.

I know this because I have done this.

Frankly, we've all probably thrown ourselves a pity party or few in our lives when things just suck. So I have to wonder, why do we feel the need to feel like victims? Like the world is out to get us? Isn't that counterintuitive? Perhaps it is a mechanism to deal with negative events in our lives. There is some glory to being a martyr.

When I hung out a lot more with a Debbie Downer friend, I used to think that being positive took affirmative effort. That the default mood was depression and angst, and to arise from that default mood, one had to summon the extra energy to not be depressed or angst-ridden. But now I think it's about frame of mind.

Like most people, I get annoyed from time to time about stupid b.s. at work. Someone drops the ball because he procrastinated on a project. So you're the one who has to take on his workload. Someone was lazy and didn't feel like doing something. So you're the one who has to take on his workload.

Usually, in a perfect universe, when Person A fucks up, Person A is the one who must deal with the consequences. At work, however, when Person A fucks up, Yellow Gal is the one who has to deal with the consequences. At this point -- when the work mishaps combine with my In-A-Perfect-Universe ponderings -- I begin selecting the font and text for the invitations to my pity party.

Instead of getting mad, however, I should change my frame of mind. Instead of thinking, "Because of these lazy fuckups, I need to work late," I should remind myself that the more work that I do, the more valuable I become as an employee. And, without throwing anyone under the bus, I need to let my managers know that I've done more than my share of work.

If Person A has only accomplished projects 1 and 2 during the calendar year, and if Yellow Gal has accomplished projects 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, during the calendar year, a reasonable manager would surmise that, when it comes to raises, promotions, or (god forbid) layoffs, Yellow Gal is probably the more valuable candidate.

The key is to self-promote. (Or so they tell me.) The old school ethic of working hard and hoping the higher ups will notice won't fly. Unfortunately, the old school ethic of working hard and hoping the higher ups will notice seems to be the classic, stereotypical Asian work ethic.

I detest people who brag about themselves. You know the ones. They dominate the conversation at lunch or board meetings, regaling everyone within earshot with tales of their valor on Project A, Presentation B, or Client C. They boast, they laugh at their own jokes, and they heartily agree and nod when they get props. I really dislike those people. And no matter what, I don't think I could ever be That Asshole.

So there seems to be a fine line between cockiness and confidence. I just need to find it and remind myself: as people pile more shit on you, remember to let the higher ups know. In the end, it makes the shitpilers look lazy, and makes you look awesome.

Pity party averted.

Resilience

A coworker just told me about her ex-husband and how, at her son's wedding, she did not want to walk her son down the aisle with her ex-husband.

Now everyone harbors ill will towards an ex, right? Then she told me what he did. He:

(1) cheated on her during their marriage,
(2) left her and their children, and
(3) told her the reason he cheated on her and left her was because she was fat and ugly.

Wow.

Honestly, I couldn't believe he did that to her. The sad thing was that she believed what he said . . . for years. She believed that, if she were more attractive, if she were thinner, perhaps the family would still be together. She believed that it was her fault that he cheated on her and left her.

I couldn't imagine the kind of damage that line of thinking does to a woman. As she told me her story, though, she seemed totally recovered from the trauma. She moved past it, apparently, and can now look back on it when some objectivity. And she ended up walking her son down the aisle with her ex.

But seriously, how do you get over that? I'm not sure I could.

I never cease to be amazed by the strength of some people.

The hurtful truth

Did you ever have to have a conversation you really, really, really did not want to have, but you had to have?

I do.

It's nothing terrible, shady, or heart-breaking. But I run the risk of offending someone deeply and personally. This conversation may even strain the friendship. But I have to do this. I want to tell the person directly, rather than allowing the person hear it from someone else.

To make myself feel better, I will list other conversations that are no doubt MORE difficult to have than the one I'm about to have with my friend.

Difficult conversations between friends:

-"I want to end this friendship."
-"The reason I don't hang out as much is that none of my friends like you."
-"I think your boyfriend/husband is cheating on you."
-"I slept with your boyfriend/husband."

Difficult conversations between significant others in a relationship:

-"I can't have children."
-"I have a sexually transmitted disease. It has no cure."
-"I don't love you anymore."
-"I cheated on you."

Okay, that didn't make me feel better. In fact, that was actually a little depressing to write out. I hope that no one ever has to say/hear these things. But if they do, props for having the guts to say it.

Sometimes I feel like my decisions are based on the lesser of two evils - which course of action will cause less anxiety/pain? Biting the bullet and telling the person the bad news directly? Or having the person find out this information from someone else, or some other way?

I might know the answer to this question, but it doesn't mean I like it.

Ascension from a pissy mood

There is so much negativity and tension in the world. It circulates around us, among us, and within us. It seemingly emanates from strangers, coworkers, and--most potently--our friends and family. Each interaction is coated with this toxic negativity.

Sometimes I feel it build within me. The pent-up resentment, the irritation. It boils beneath the surface. I imagine scenarios where I blow up at the wrong-doers, self-righteous in my anger and victimization.

But now I'm telling myself this: In the end, all the bullshit we get worked up over will mean nothing. Don't succumb to the toxic negativity. Rise above it. Be honest with yourself and with others. And have compassion for the people who live day to day in bitter resentment until they die. Because life is short, and we have only so long to make most of the time we have.

My father passed away when he was 67. And I'm almost halfway to his age. I will likely die of a heart attack like he did, thanks to heredity. I avoid fried food, red meat and pork, and exercise several times a week to toll my genetic death clock.

But one day, I will die. And in the moments right before I die, I might look back at my life, and wonder why I got worked up over bullshit. It was all so meaningless, and I should have spent more time being happy.

Hopefully I will have that deathbed-epiphany sooner rather than later.

Hintidy hint hint

It's a common to cite the great irony of America being obsessed with weight, but also having the most of it.

Recently, my company has been posting Weight Watchers posters all around the office. In the facility's cafeteria. On the tables. On walls. Near the bathroom. By the water fountain. Near every exit and stairwell and elevator. Not to mention, we seem to get weekly company-wide emails promoting the company's subsidized Weight Watchers program.

Is this a hint? Are they calling us fat?

Sure, there is a rotund coworker or twenty around the office. But this blatant pushing of Weight Watchers on us is getting borderline offensive.

Imagine if a boyfriend or spouse did this. You come home from work, and on the door is a Weight Watchers poster. You open the fridge, and there is a Weight Watchers ad. You sit at the dining room table, and there is a Weight Watchers flier. You check your email, and you see a Weight Watchers email from him.

I think most men in that situation would their balls chopped off.

Anyway, I get it. The company wants to lower their subsidized health insurance costs, particularly those related to heart-disease, diabetes, obesity, etc. So they only want to help you so they can help themselves.

I wish there was a way of implementing this initiative without feeling like we're being passive-aggressively told that we're fat.

Sheesh.

Hacked!

So I am one of those people who have several different email accounts, one "real" email account, one for my blog, one for spam, etc. Well, one of the ones that used to be my "real" email account but now a back-up email account got hacked! Some logged into my account and spammed all my contacts!

This is the FIRST time I've been hacked. I'm pretty good at detecting phishing emails and spoofed websites. I update my antivirus and antispyware pretty regularly (almost neurotically). But somehow, somewhere, something got through!

So, aside from feeling somewhat violated that my email account got hacked and also feeling mortified that all my contacts got spammed, I realized that all these people from my past, whom I never deleted from my contacts, were spammed as well.

This includes: ex-boyfriends, toxic friends, and friends-turned-enemies. I'm sure all of them were pleased to see an email from Yellow Gal waxing eloquent on the virtues of Viagra.

How embarrassing!

Fortunately, so far, none of my former acquaintances replied back with a, "Hey, how's it going, you bitch?" response.

So far.

Argh. So embarrassing.

Yellow truth

I called my mom's house on Thanksgiving Day to wish her a happy thanksgiving. No one picked up the phone. I called her cell phone, twice, and left her a message. No returned call. I also called my brother and left a voicemail. Again, no returned call.

The day came and went, and I hadn't heard from any of them. Then I thought, maybe they were in a terrible accident and they're in the hospital. But wouldn't someone have called me?

I called the house again on the Friday after Thanksgiving. My mom picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, mom."

"Oh, hi." She then proceeded to answer a question I had asked two voicemails ago.

Then I said, "So how was your thanksgiving?"

"Oh it was good. It was just your brother and I so we went to Old Country Buffet," she said. "It was so crowded. How was yours?"

"Oh, it was good too. Had it with another couple, and we brought some side dishes."

"Oh, good to hear it was good."

"So, um, why didn't you call me back yesterday?"

"Oh," she said. Then she gave a huff of a laugh and said, "Oh, cell phone reception is bad here."

That's funny. Cell phone reception seems to work fine the other 649,932,091 times you've called me to ask about how to turn on the computer or change your screensaver.

"Oh, um, okay," I said. "Well, talk to you later."

"Take care," she said.

"Bye."

So my mom is lame. Emotionally unavailable and lame. Which I hate to admit, but I am too sometimes. I suppose I could have called my mom out on her lameness and stated the italicized thought above. But then would I have wanted to hear the Yellow truth? That she didn't want to call me back and wish me a happy thanksgiving? That these holiday sentiments are a product of my American assimilation and only encourage maudlin triteness? That, quite frankly, she didn't want to talk to me that day or the day before?

I told the Fiance this and he is always hesitant to rag on my mom. He just hoped we wouldn't be like that with our kids.

Here's to hoping that emotional unavailability is a cultural trait, not a genetic one.

Super ordinary

I am a fan of superheroes. I'm not a supernerd or anything; I don't collect comic books or study the genre and all subgenres of superheroes. I'm just a general fan of stories involving people with extraordinary powers.

Superheroes seem to be born with their powers, or acquire it later in life. Also, their powers are sometimes alien or chemically-induced (or supernatural) in nature, or an enhancement of their own naturally existing skills. Like Superman versus Batman. Wolverine versus Iron Man.

On the History Channel, Stan Lee (creator of Spiderman, X-men, among others) has a show about superhumans, which explores the premise that there were (and are) people with "superpowers."

So I asked myself the question anyone who has ever read or watched a superhero story line would ask herself: What would my superpower be?

Hmm. I can make my eyes, hands, and feet water at will. Not exactly appetizing, I know. But I never need rewetting drops. And when I'm at the supermarket and I encounter those superthin, plastic produce bags that are nearly impossible to open, I make my finger moisten at will and then am able to open the bag.

Okay, so it's not really a fantastic superpower, unless I could produce amounts massive enough to stop a bank robbery or prevent a truck from exploding.

I can also remember details of things that I hear about or experience. At first, I thought all my friends had early onset of Alzheimer's because they couldn't remember all the details I remembered. But it turns out I just have a better memory than most people.

If I see a movie once, I can recite lines from it. If someone tells me a story about someone at a random cocktail party, I can recall all the details of that story years later.

I don't forget people I meet, so frequently, I'm in the situation of meeting people for the second time, and they don't remember me because the encounter was so brief.

My old buddy the Naysayer has dated countless women over the past several years. And I remember all of them--even better than the Naysayer himself.

"Who was that girl I dated with the nice hair?" he asks me.

"Was it first year or second year of grad school?" I respond.

"First year."

"Okay, that was Rita."

"What about that girl in college I met at a party?"

"The one who baked you cookies?"

"Uh...yeah..."

"Allison."

I'm not sure how this "power" really helps either. It's not that I'm a superlearner. I remember "human" facts, like stories about people, faces, and events. And it's not that I was great at history in high school--in fact, I disliked history. I think it has to do with experiencing the human facts as they happen.

Okay, okay, so I'm not going to be a superhero anytime soon. But it's nice to think that if some interstellar, cataclysmic event occurred...I could be.

A not good guy

I was chatting with Yellow Mom on the phone today. She asked how the Fiance and I are doing. "Good," I said.

"Things are good? That's good," she replied.

"Yep, things are good."

"You know, that's good that things are good," she continued. "You're not an easy person to live with."

I laughed. "The feeling is mutual."

"You need to be with someone good. Especially with your personality."

Normally, I would take this as a blatant attack on my lovability; but I understand exactly what she's talking about.

I know I get cantankerous sometimes for no reason at all. I take things out of context, take things personally, or respond sensitively to random remarks. Yes, these are my flaws, and sometimes I'm amazed that there's someone out there who will put up with it.

"You know," she continued, "it's good that Fiance is a good man. The number one quality to look for in a husband is that he is a good man."

Well, duh, I thought to myself.

"Money, education, intelligence," she said, "those are secondary to being a good person."

"Okay," I said.

"I mean, those are important," she qualified, "but goodness is number one."

"I get it," I said. "Yes, Fiance is a good man. He tolerates me and is patient with me."

"Good," she said.

I never really thought it would be a question: every chick wants a good man, right? I mean, isn't being a good person a fundamental trait that the One must have?

Then I thought about it. There are some women who are drawn to bad guys. Yes, there are really bad guys, like the ones who molest kids and moonlight as hitmen. Then there are bad guys, like the ones who cheat on their women. And then there are not-really-bad-but-bad guys.

My friend, "Angela," is dating a guy whom she is absolutely crazy about. She thinks he's super good-looking, intelligent, and funny. They've talked about marriage and kids. They've even looked at rings.

But there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. I'm not exactly sure if he's a not-really-bad-but-but guy, or just a guy who is not good for my friend. Here's the background:

When they first started dating and hooking up, he started kicking it to a mutual friend of ours, "Beth." While still dating Angela, he sent text messages to Beth, asked how she was doing, and wanted to chat with her some time. He said lately he had been just staying in these past weekends, keeping it low key. He called her nicknames, like "shorty."

Later, we find out that he had been "staying in" all right, staying in and hooking up with Angela.

Now, technically speaking, the guy didn't do anything wrong. Angela and the dude weren't exclusively dating at the time he started kicking it to Beth. Until a couple Defines The Relationship, both parties are free agents. And even if they were in a relationship, he still didn't do anything wrong. He was just being "friendly" with Beth.

Still though, a little shady, no? Why would you kick it to a girl while having sex with her friend?

Notwithstanding this blip, the couple proceeded to Define The Relationship and became an official item.

I, however, noticed other red flags. For one, he constantly checks out other girls in front of his girlfriend, Angela, points out how fine these other women's tits/ass/legs are, and then proceeds to encourage Angela to hit the gym more often.

Is this "bad" behavior? He isn't abusing her or cheating on her.

When I hang out with him in a group (and Angela isn't there), he frequently begins his sentences with, "Man, if I were single":

"Man if I were single, I'd be going out every weekend instead of staying in."

"Man if I were single, I'd get a Porsche."

"Man if I were single, I'd be dating 18-year-olds." [Note: plural 18-year-olds. Also note: he is 35 years old, and so Angela.]

Now, he has never said, "I wish I were single." He simply fantasizes about being single.

I typically counter him by saying, "Dude, I've been single for 99% of my adult life. Dating is awful. Painful. I can't wait to not be single."

"Dating is not hard," he said. "You girls just don't know where to look, or you try too hard, or your standards are too high."

"I just I feel like I've been there, done that," I responded. "And I'm done. Done with the mind games, the Rules, the high hopes and the disappointments. Done with weeding through socially retarded guys. Done with dating. It's time for the next phase of my life."

He didn't seem to get it.

So is it me? Or does it seem like my friend's boyfriend isn't ready to settle down? More than that, he seems a little disrespectful towards her. He doesn't abuse her. But checking out a hot chick, pointing out her 36-DDD breasts and 23 inch waist, and asking his girlfriend why she can't hit the gym more just doesn't strike me as something that a "good" guy would do. On top of that, in front of our friends, he nagged her about hitting the gym -- I repeat, in front of her friends. Bear in mind, she is in no way FAT. Just because she isn't Jessica Alba doesn't mean she's FAT.

Angela loves him so much and seems almost grateful that she "has" him. Her sister, who is a clinical psychologist, met the boyfriend. Afterward, Angela asked her sister what she thought.

"He's a nice guy. Charming, good-looking, likable," the sister said. "The only thing is--I'm only saying this because I love you--"

"What?" Angela said.

"He strikes me as the kind of guy who would cheat on you."

"Oh," she said. Of course, the sister is just being overprotective...or jealous...or right.

A year later, they're still dating. He hasn't proposed yet. And some of us hope he doesn't. I think that might make me a shitty friend. We should hope for the best for our friends, and if this guy makes Angela so happy, we should hope for the best for both of them, right? We have talked to her about the guy's shadiness, but she brushes it off. After all, there is no strong evidence that he is a bad guy.

He just strikes me as man who isn't exactly good.

You reap what you sow.

Okay so I'm not running tonight. Looks like I'll be running a couple 9-mile days.

Not putting on my running shoes

I don't particularly feel like running tonight. But I know I should. I try to run at least 25 miles a week, and I've got to do 18 more miles by 11:59 pm this Saturday. I can do a couple 9 mile days, but I'd rather not.

Sometimes I feel like I have to work off a debt. Like if I eat a piece of red velvet cake, a couple slices of pizza, or a few too many corn chips. I feel like running is the non-bulimic way of purging the bad calories. Exercise is the poor man's plastic surgery.

Sometimes I'm in a pissy/anxious/melancholy mood, and I run with the hope that it will lift my spirits. Exercise is the poor man's xanax.

And sometimes, I don't feel like running at all. I have to force myself against my will to wear my ratty t-shirt and shorts, pin my hair back in the most ridiculous yet effective way to keep the stray hairs from sticking to my face, slip on my double-knotted shoes, and step on the treadmill. I force myself to push the start button and force myself to listen to my iPod and run.

Run even though every fiber of my being rebels against it.

Run even though the song I paid 99 cents to download is doing absolutely nothing to motivate me.

Run even though it feels completely and utterly futile.

Run because I have to.

Sometimes, I ask myself while I'm doing it, "Why am I doing this? What exactly is compelling me to get on a machine and voluntarily subject myself to discomfort?"

Then I tell myself to just stop thinking about it. Accept the fact that you're going to run x miles, and it's gonna happen. Just run.

Asian Standard Time

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

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

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

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

It is maddening. For example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's it. Just had to vent.