Okay so it's been a while

I have literally been swamped with work. Imagine a five-foot-two Asian girl underneath a disarray of stapled packets, velobound documents and notepads. Next to the disarray are the Asian girl's bosses asking where X, Y and Z are and when they'll be done, and tossing in another stapled packet onto the pile for good measure.

So now I am taking a moment out of my Saturday at work to post an entry on my neglected blog. Last night, had a date with a guy (date #2 with this guy). It's funny how "come over to watch a movie" universally means "come over and make out." He was a good kisser. Did not attempt to eat my face--always a good sign.

Have a semi-blind date with another guy tonight. I'm not too optimistic about this one, but we'll see. As with all first dates, my invariable hope is that it doesn't suck.

Okay, I've gotten my blog fix. Back to work.

Ethics of dating

I am happy that I get to polish off this crazy hectic traumatizing stroke-inducing workweek with a date tonight. It's this guy I met through a friend of a friend. I admit, I haven't fully resolved things with the Exfoliator. As I mused over this the other evening, I began to wonder and posed the following questions to my friend the Naysayer: What are the ethics of dating more than one guy at a time? And if things progress in each prospective relationship, i.e. physically, is that wrong?

His response (keep in mind he is a single 28-year-old male): "You can sleep with both guys if you want at the same time throughout the same period and it's all good."

I paused. "Are you being sarcastic?" I asked.

"No, I'm serious," he said.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Look, if you don't define the relationship with either of the guys, then you are free to do whatever (or whomever) you want. You are committed to neither of the guys and neither of the guys are committed to you."

"Yeah, but isn't that ... icky?"

"I think morally and ethically, it's sound. But in your case, I don't think you're capable of that."

"Yeah," I agreed, "I don't think I am."

So I suppose I agree. If both Girl and Guy #1 have no binding agreement on the terms of their relationship, then Girl is free to date and do Guy #2. It's a free country. We have free will. And as long as people protect themselves (emotionally and physically), then it's all good. Be happy. Life's short.

I suppose, like the Naysayer intimated, I am incapable of being in the mindset to do that. Usually, I want to "be" with a guy if I really really like him. And it's difficult for me to really really like two guys at the same time.

Anyhow, none of this really matters because neither of the guys have made any indication of wanting to have sex with me. For all I know, next week I'll be blogging again about how there are "no guys out there" and then resort to online dating. If worse comes to worse, I can always find a sugar daddy.

Always there

The shit hit the fan big time this week. I admit I am prone to drama and neurosis, so when the shit hits the fan in my presence, and I mean a huge piece of shit hitting the fan hard, I freak out big time. The human body and mind are only capable of so much stress. And I think I reached that point this week.

At that point, I think I reverted to my 5-year-old self, bawled like a little girl, and literally called my mom. How funny is it, that when you think you're so independent and so strong and so together, that when the shit hits the fan and your friends are out of town, busy or at a loss, and you have no boyfriend to freak out to, you call your mom? And somehow, even though she has no idea what a motion or brief is and even though she can only speak in soft broken English, she is able to console me.

And it made me realize how important my mom is to me in my life. I don't talk to her every day, but just knowing she is always there for me is very comforting. How true it was when she said to me on the phone just last night: "I'm always here for you."

Workaholics

Things have been crazy with work. (Hence the lack of posts.) I am amazed by people who can do consecutive 14-hour days Sunday through Saturday and still maintain their sanity. How the heck do they do it? Out of all professions, it should be no surprise that smoking, alcoholism, heart attacks and suicide rates in the legal profession are among the highest of all professions.

And on that happy note, happy Monday!

Just a girl

I'm 28 years old. And still, to this day, whenever a guy likes me, as in like-likes me, I am incredibly flattered.

Despite years of experiencing leers from pervy old men, obscene pick-up lines, random gropes on public transportation, and encounters with guys who see all women as walking vaginas, I am still flattered.

I am an unremarkable, neurotic girl with a fair number of boy issues. A guy who meets me and knows this and still manages to like me boggles my mind (so thinks the insecure high schooler inside of me). Then the cynical side of me kicks in and wonders what's wrong with him to like me.

Like I said. Fair number of boy issues.

Is it in his kiss?

Can you really judge a guy by his kiss? A guy once told me you can tell how passionate someone is by the way she kisses. If her kiss is limp and lifeless, then he ends it right then and there. And as Samantha from Sex and the City said about bad kissers: "[D]ump him, a bad kisser is non-negotiable." Further: "if his tongue is just going to lay there, what do you think his dick is going to do?"

So really, are kissing skills a proxy of "other" skills? I surveyed the repertoire of guys I've encountered. The guys who were good were decent kissers. Yet there are some guys who were good kissers but were bad. I suppose the guys who were bad kissers were not that good. Okay so it all seems kind of random, at least in my experience.

Anyway, the reason I bring this all up is because recently, I kissed a guy. It was mixed. On the one hand, it felt very passionate and hot and also sweet and reverent. On the other hand, I sometimes felt like he was trying to eat my head.

No seriously, eat my head. Not my face. My head.

I think his incisors made contact with my external right cheek. And his teeth scraped against my gums and my tongue. I may not be the goddess of kissing, but I'm pretty sure that exfoliating my face and gums is NOT a good indication of a good kiss.

Am I wrong?

So -- the question that Charlotte from S&tC brings up is: Would you dump a guy over a bad kiss? Is it something you can "work on"? How do you tell a guy, "Could you please not bite my face? Thank you." So Charlotte tried to teach her Bad Kisser how to kiss better by cooing to him, "I really like it when you kiss my lips like this" and so on. In the end though, he strayed from her instructions so horribly, that when he got up to the point of gnawing on her chin, she finally pushed him away and yelled at him, "Stop it!" Then she told him he was a bad kisser and quite literally walked away from him, never to see him again.

Harsh, I know. But seriously, kissing is important to me. I love kissing, and a good kiss can be just as hot as good sex. It's a necessary component of foreplay, and if the kiss ain't good, then the physical relationship is not going to ascend to Level 2.

Is that superficial? Am I being too harsh? I don't know. All I know is that kissing is not supposed to be painful. If a guy is flossing my teeth, I can't help but NOT be turned on. But I suppose I will give the Exfoliator another chance. If, however, he ends up gnawing on my chin, it's over.

Only as old as you feel

I am usually unaware of my age. If asked what age I feel right now, I'd probably say 24-25-ish rather than 28. Sometimes however, a certain sequence of events--other than hearing one's mother call her a spinster or relatives demanding to know why one has not married yet--will remind a gal that she's not in her early or mid twenties, that she is in fact in her late twenties.

Friday night, I went to two different bars. Got drunk. Went to a dance club, pounded a few more drinks, and danced my ass off. Realized--after about 10 years of experience with alcohol, some of which included nights of bowing down to the porcelain god--that I had reached the Limit and subsequently drank lots of water.

Saturday, slightly hungover, I attended a professional event with an open bar. Then went to another bar and then a dance club and danced my ass off. Got drunk. Unfortunately, I realized my Limit a little too late, and a visit to the porcelain god was in order.

Today is Sunday. As I groggily popped in my Extra Strength Tylenol caplets and forced water down my throat, it hit me: I'm too old for this shit.

I am not 20 years old. I am not in college. I am not of that mind and body and state where I can get piss-ass drunk two nights in a row, dance nonstop for five straight hours until 3 AM and bounce right back the next day on three hours of sleep and be totally normal. I don't even feel normal when I'm sober.

Granted, I had fun. I love meeting new people. I love dancing to music while buzzing happily. I love going out. So aside from the nausea, headaches, vomiting and hangovers, I had fun.

Just a new note to self: reserve the piss-ass-debauchery to only one night a week.

59 things men should not do past age 30.

[Stole this from another blog.]

1. Coin his own nickname.
2. Use a wallet that is fastened with Velcro.
3. Rank his friends in order of best, second best, and so on.
4. Hacky sack.
5. Name his penis his name plus junior.
6. Hang art with tape.
7. Hang The Scream, unless he stole it from the Munch museum in Oslo.
8. Ask a policeman, "You ever shoot anybody with that thing?"
9. Ask a woman, "Hey, you got a license for that ass?"
10. Skip.
11. Take a camera to a nude beach.
12. Let his father do his taxes.
13. Tap on the glass.
14. Shout out a response to "Are you ready to rock?"
15. Use the word collated on his resume.
16. Hold a weekly house meeting with roommates.
17. Name pets after Middle Earth characters.
18. Jokingly flash gang signs while posing for wedding photos.
19. Give shout-outs.
20. Use numbers in place of words or locations, such as "the 411" for information, or "the 313" for Detroit.
21. Hug amusement-park characters.
22. Wear Disney-themed neckties.
23. Wake up to a "morning zoo."
24. Compare the trajectory of his life with those of the characters in Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."
25. Request extra sprinkles.
26. Air drum.
27. Choose 69 as his jersey number.
28. Eat Oreo cookies in stages.
29. Volunteer to be a magician's assistant.
30. Sleep on a bare mattress.
31. End a conversation with "later skater."
32. Hold his lighter up at a concert.
33. Publicly greet friends by shouting, "What's up, you whore?"
34. Wear Converse All Stars with a tuxedo.
35. Propose via stadium Jumbotron.
36. Decide anything based on the ruminations of Howard Stern.
37. Call "shotgun" before getting in a car.
38. Dispute someone else's call of "shotgun."
39. Whine.
40. Mist up during Aerosmith's "Dream On."
41. Purchase fireworks.
42. Google the word vagina.
43. Ride a pony.
44. Sport an ironic mustache.
45. Hit 13 against a 6.
46. Organize a party bus.
47. Say "two points" every time he throws something in the trash.
48. Buy a novelty postcard in another country of topless women on a beach and write, "Wish you were here" on it.
49. Keg stands.
50. Purchase home-brewing paraphernalia.
51. The John Travolta point-to-the-ceiling-point-to-the-floor dance move; also that one from Pulp Fiction.
52. Put less than ten dollars' worth of gas in the tank.
53. Keep a minuscule amount of marijuana extremely well hidden.
54. Read The Fountainhead.
55. Watch the Pink Floyd laser light show at a planetarium.
56. Refer to his girlfriend's breasts as "the twins."
57. Own a vanity plate.
58. Whippits.
59. Say goodbye to anyone by tapping his chest and even so much as whispering, "Peace out."

Dear Boy On The Bus,

I know you were scared. Very scared. You could be no older than 21 years old, fresh-faced and eager to venture into the Big Big City in your striped shirt and neatly ironed slacks. You had combed your light blonde hair very neatly, thinking you could hide your roots, believing you could fool the dwellers of the Big Big City that you in fact were one of them. You didn't want them to know you grew up in a tiny town of 500 people and went to a university surrounded by acres of golden corn and green pastures. You were in the Big Big City now, and you were going to show the world that you were not the farm boy everyone had you pegged for.

But I could see you were scared. I saw you stand by the bus pole, huddling as close as you could to the corner, fearing me -- this strange-looking, yellow-hued female with non-blonde hair and non-blue eyes. The bus was crowded, people were standing uncomfortably close to each other, and you whispered prayers to God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that the strange Yellow Gal wouldn't stand so close to you. You flinched every time my jacket inadvertently touched your arm. You cowered in terror each time my hand readjusted its grip on the pole.

You were so scared. So very scared. A virgin at age 21, you didn't want your first time to be a sexual assault by a Yellow Gal on a public city bus. I wanted to pet your pretty blonde hair and assure you that I was no monster, that it was going to be okay, that you'd survive the Big Big City. I could see in your teary quivering eyes that you missed the farm, the nice town folk, the quiet. Here there was noise. Here it was crowded. Here a strange Yellow Gal was hovering nauseatingly close. The word "Rape!" was lodged in your throat, ready to explode from your pale lips the moment the strange Yellow hand would touch you.

But it didn't. And how relieved you were it didn't as I exited the bus. I saw you sigh with relief. What a scary city, you thought as you readjusted your man-purse and looked out the bus window at the looming sky-scrapers.

So, dear Boy On The Bus, be assured I was not trying to sexually assault you, that I would not sexually assault you, and most of all, that there are many more where I came from.

Sincerely,
Yellow Gal

I am not on crack.

I was on the bus this morning, commuting to work. I usually look at the other commuters in their sedans and coupes as they trudge forward in rush hour traffic. They're sometimes on a cell phone, or arguing with the passenger, or bopping along to the radio. Nothing eventful. Nothing out of the ordinary.

This morning, however, was different.

This morning, I saw a man playing a trumpet. While commuting. In his car.

The man had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other hand holding the trumpet. Then he'd place his lips on the trumpet, blow into it, and look over the horn while driving.

It certainly perked up my Wednesday morning commute. Too bad I couldn't hear what he was tooting.

Give it to me.

I have a goal.

It's very simple.

Actually it's a combination of various little goals.

First, I will not engage in an ounce of any intellectual activity for the rest of today, save for the brain function necessary to blink, breathe and eat.

Second, I will go to an extravagant, chichi seafood restaurant in the city, order an extravagant, chichi dish, and eat it.

Third, and most importantly, I will get drunk.

Very

Very

Very

Very

Drunk.

I had a long week.

I did a lot of work.

I am

emotionally

and

physically

exhausted.

I need the weekend.

Right here.

Right now.

Hard.

Waiting to exhale

There is a cute guy at Starbucks. He always smiles at me when he gives me my coffee. Yes he smiles at everyone, but when he smiles at me, I feel like he's smiling at me. Or maybe that's what I'd like to believe. I think he's noticed my gazing at him as he's stacking the cups and affixing lids onto iced coffees. And he must have seen the way I simper "Thank you" when he hands me my cup of coffee.

Unfortunately, I'm 99.9% sure he's gay.

Sure, it's quite possible that a guy whose mannerisms bear an uncanny resemblance to Jack McFarland's on "Will & Grace" is indeed straight. And maybe my having gone to two high school formals with two different gay guys and my living in the gay area of the city belie my lack of gaydar.

But I think he's gay.

I'll maintain this tiny strand of hope that he's straight, that a guy that cute can indeed be hetero. But I won't hold my breath.

Tuesday

It was a cool crisp commute this morning. I can tell autumn is steadily approaching and for some reason, I can't help but feel a stirring excitement within me.

I have absolutely no idea why.

I think of gold and red leaves, Halloween, pumpkin pie and Thanksgiving break. There is the the cool air, the wool sweaters, the crackling fireplaces.

And then there is the city. I love working downtown. I walked a few blocks during my lunch break today and beheld old white men in suits and ties, young women in black leather boots and Burberry jackets, tourists wandering hesitantly, taking pictures and holding maps upside down. There is the wind that breathes between the skyscrapers. The bum holding a sign that recounts his life's woes. Old ladies squawking. Thirty-year-old guys fresh out of business school sauntering from their offices to be ten minutes late for their eighty-dollar-lunches.

Something about the fall. Something about the city. It just feels great.

Nice is good, right?

The date on Friday was okay. The guy was perfectly polite and well-kempt. Nothing offensive was uttered. I ended up going with the more fitted / less linty black top. The evening ended with a modest hug.

So yeah, he seems like a nice guy and he's cute. I almost sort of wish I could make myself like him. Maybe if I go on another date with him, I'll begin to develop feelings? How many dates should a girl go on a date with a guy before she realizes "You know what, this just ain't gonna happen"?

I also know there's this inexplicable thing that accounts for attraction to the opposite sex, call it chemistry, zing, bada bing, I don't know. I have yet to figure out the precise combination of traits a guy must possess to make me like him. Maybe there is no equation and it's just some unseen unexplainable primal thing that is either there or not. Who knows.

I guess one thing I've observed about the guy is that, while he's nice, he doesn't make me laugh in that clever-witty or fall-off-my-chair way. But he's nice.

Hmm. I'm beginning to think it's about as hard to make yourself like a guy as it is to make yourself not like a guy.

Stalking the stalker

I've never really been "stalked" in the literal sense. And I'm quite grateful for that. I have had a few instances that bordered on semi-disturbing or slightly invasive, but nothing reaching the levels of psychosis.

There were a couple times when I was trying to avoid a certain guy, and the guy asked a mutual friend for my new number or what time I'd be back from doing X. The mutual friend unknowingly supplied the information and the guy was then able to get a hold of me.

Another example dates back when we used to use UNIX-based systems to email. Through this system, one was able to "finger" other people's accounts and see the last time they logged on and whether or not they had new mail. I had a friend who would send me email and, when I didn't reply within twenty-four hours, would finger my account to see if I had logged on and if so, whether I had new mail. When she saw I had "no new mail," she immediately barraged me with emails asking why I hadn't replied yet. What the UNIX system however neglected to reveal was that sometimes, people logged on or even checked their email, yet did not read ALL their email, as was the case with my friend. I also didn't feel the need to enlighten her that I myself, through a simple function, could ascertain who fingered my account.

Yep, the stalkers can be stalked.

So when it comes to the internet, there is a overwhelming sense of anonymity. In the case of Blogger, for example, anonymous people post entries on their blogs and anonymous readers post comments. Virtually all bloggers have varying programs on their site monitoring who visits their site. I recall reading one friend's blog that was receiving increasingly hostile comments from "Anonymous." At first, the friend took it lightly. Yet when "Anonymous" became plain obnoxious, my friend casually replied posting various personal facts about "Anonymous," about his ISP, where he lived, etc. "Anonymous" soon shut the hell up.

People also create fake email addresses and send anonymous emails to other people. This too can be circumvented. For example, Yahoo and Hotmail both allow people to see the full header of every email they receive, including the sender's IP address. Perhaps a particularly diligent stalker will hide his IP address, set up a dummy domain, or log into a public portal. Unfortunately for these stalkers, even emails sent from these means can be traced. With a bit of detective work and perhaps some monetary investment, every stalker can be unmasked. A public portal at a library or a Kinko's or random kiosk is traceable. A hidden or faked IP address can be revealed. This is especially true if the victim of threatening emails enlists the help of the local authorities or, unluckily for the stalker, federal authorities.

It is particularly satisfying to unmask someone who thinks they got away with something. It is even more satisfying to let them do it for a while, watch them gleefully stalk, and all the while know exactly who they are without them knowing you know.

Yep, the stalkers can be stalked.

Waiting...and waiting

Friday night. My date was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 PM but he just texted me he'll be half an hour late. Which, just to be on the cynical side, I interpret to be 45 minutes late.

Not like I have anything better to do, except blog with bad TV in the background.

I sort of picked out a top. It's either the fitted black top or the looser black top. They're pretty much identical. The fitted black top is, well, more form-fitting and has a deeper v-neck. The looser black top, while not as revealing, is still cute.

Pros of the fitted top: It shows off my figure.
Cons of the fitted top: It shows off my figure.

Who knows. It may come down to which black shirt has less visible lint.

Yes I'm procrastinating

For the past 36 hours, my existence has been consumed with this one project. It has sucked my will to live. It has drained me of my spirit. Now I sit here. And procrastinate.

How is it that I always find the time to procrastinate? Oh, if only there were a profession for procrastinators -- I would do so well. I'd start entry-level and work my way up to a managerial position. Then I'd be promoted to regional manager, then to regional vice president, then to director and then to full partner. Next thing you know, I'd be president of the business. I would be asked to be an adjunct professor at the top graduate school with the top procrastination graduate program. I would tour the world and give lectures on the Art of Procrastinating. Books bearing stupid puns like "Procrastinate Later," "Busily Procrastinating" and "Perfecting Procrastination" would circulate the presses. I would have an entry on Wikipedia on my life's accomplishments. I would be Queen and Goddess of All That Deals with Procrastination. All will worship me and despair.

But so far I have not seen any job openings for "Professional Procrastinator." For now, I suppose I'll have to settle for the title of "Peon who Procrastinates."

I hate this woman.

This one.

A breather

I had taken a nice jog by the water last night. Afterwards, I walked back to my apartment and went straight to my living room where I decided to take a breather. As I sat on my couch/futon/former bed, I suddenly heard a girl from the next apartment yell loudly. Startled, I sat and listened.

"Oh...my...god....YES!" she moaned.

I immediately surmised the girl was having sex. Apparently good sex. I had never heard anyone having sex before (um, unless of course I was present). And I admit I sat there perhaps a couple more seconds than I should have, given the novelty of the situation. After three seconds though, I felt like I was invading someone's privacy (not to mention being a bit pervy) and walked to the other end of my apartment.

So yes, it was slightly disturbing to hear my neighbor have sex. And perhaps it bothered me that she was getting laid while I wasn't. But what bothered me more was that if I could clearly hear each moan she uttered during intercourse, then she could probably hear me!

Not that it mattered given that I wasn't getting any.

Well it's good to know at least one girl in my building is getting some.

Kind of.

I'm kind of excited.

Kind of.

I have a date on Friday. Ahh!

It's a guy whom I sort of met not too long ago and whom I sort of knew kind of liked me and whom I was sort of post-poning / blowing off because I wasn't sure if I was interested. After 4,572 people told me I write off guys way too easily, I decided to consider him seriously. And so I'm meeting him for a drink this Friday. The venue: My choice.

Now which bar should I choose? I peruse the bar categories and listings and reviews on Citysearch.com and am not sure. I'd like a place that's romantic but not sappy. Laid back but not divey. Cool but not pretentious.

Who knew guys had it so tough when deciding where to take girls out?

On a completely unrelated note, I suddenly feel the urge to visit the gym every night this week and buy a new outfit at Macy's.