Ella Fitzgerald hits it dead on

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

Someone to watch over me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(bridge)

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

Someone to watch over me

A very cute guy

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday morning

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

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

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

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

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

Fun boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth will set us free. From guys.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, as always, easier blogged than done.

Break

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

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

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

Yay.

Don't think, just live

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

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

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

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

Ugh 2

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

After the beep, a voice started speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh

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

Sucks

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

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

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

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

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

"Cool," he said. He continued probing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.