Guys 101 - revisited

A guy recently gave me and my gal pal a primer in Guys 101. She and I are both in our late twenties and certainly not dating novices. So it shocked him when he discovered that we weren't privy to one of the most fundamental tenets of human nature:

A guy is never nice to a girl for no reason.

which is a corollary to:

A guy is only nice to a girl because he has some interest.

[This is similar to my previous entry on the theory that guys and girls can't "just be friends."]

This rule was of course met with reactions like "Oh COME ON!" and "Yeah right!" But he stood by it. And he conceded that there are exceptions to every rule including his, but more often than not, he was right. So we started throwing examples at him.

"A guy asks a girl for her email address?" [Yeah that was me asking about Non Emailer. I'm over it, really I am.]

"Interested."

"A guy asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"

"Interested."

"A guy who's already spoken for asks a girl to have after-work drinks?"

"Interested."

"Even if he's taken and they both know that he's taken??"

"Yes. Think about it, would he tell his woman that he's having drinks after work with a single girl?"

"Maybe...?"

"No."
___________

Side note: I think a lot of girls think that a man's status as "taken" acts as sort of a buffer. In other words, if a taken guy asks a girl to drinks or dinner, it seems innocuous because the guy is presumably devoid of interest in the girl because - "duh" - he's taken.

Another side note: A lot of girls are sometimes wrong.
___________

My friend and I mused over his seemingly glib assessment of all men-kind. I furthered, "But there've been times when I thought a guy liked me, and I was totally wrong."

He responded, "Sure, once in a while, a guy will be nice to you simply because he's just nice. But playing the probabilities, guys are never 'just nice.' "

Afterwards, my friend & I discussed this. I suppose a lot of girls like to shy away from assuming that any/every guy nice them is looking for more. First, it just seems plain arrogant to assume a guy likes a gal on the sole basis of him being nice to her. Second, as I mentioned above, some gals have thought guys liked them--and were wrong. Third, girls are nice to guys just to be nice, nothing less nothing more. So perhaps they assume the same in reverse.

At any rate, the Professor of Guys 101 just couldn't believe that my friend and I were so naive. A part of me resists his black-and-white rules. While another part of me kind of wishes that rules could be that black and white, especially those pertaining to the mysteries of the male mind.

Unlikeable

I recently met a guy my friend is dating. I do not like him. Now, I like to think I generally like most people. They usually have to do something to make me dislike them. In my friend's guy's case, he said, among other things, "I don't like Jews."

Now, everyone harbors some racism. And perhaps I should give the guy credit because he openly acknowledges his own racism while others (myself included) like to pretend we never see color, just people. The thing is, if I am racist, if I harbor negative stereotypes about groups of people, I despise that about myself. With him, he seemed to feel justified in his dislike of Jews.

It started when I said I had a thing for Jon Stewart.

"But he's a Jew," he grimaced.

I looked at him. "So what if he's Jewish?"

He repeated, "He's a Jew."

"What do you have against Jews?"

"Oh I'm just kidding around. I joke about disliking Jews sometimes."

I was like, Oh-kay... But he later again said how he didn't like "the Jews" and how "they own all the banks."

"Well," I responded, "some of them own banks because, um, they are smart and worked hard to get to where they are."

Instead of addressing my response, he simply continued his original line of conversation. At any rate, it was clear I wasn't going to persuade him to be less anti-semitic.

So how to answer the question my friend posed to me later: "So what do you think of him?"

I know that a girl will pick the guy over her friend when given a choice. I don't want to jeopardize the friendship by calling the guy a Nazi/Klansman/racist bastard. So I took the easy way out and said "Oh, he sounds...interesting."

Still, I feel like she should acknowledge the fact that his blatant anti-semitism is a problem, that it should be at least a factor in her assessment of their long-term potential. Perhaps because she has no Jewish friends or connection with Jews, she feels that his anti-semitism is irrelevant. It doesn't affect how well he treats her.

But it really bothers me. And it bothers me that it doesn't bother her. So I'm considering bringing it up with her. Nicely. Like, "Does it bother you at all that he doesn't like Jews?" I know what the answer is, and I run the risk of antagonizing her, but maybe it'll get her thinking.

On the plus side, the guy did mention that he thought Hitler was a bad guy for murdering millions of people. At least he drew the line somewhere.

Wake up

I had a dream that Non Emailer emailed me. Several times. The emails were in 24 point font, bright colors, comic sans. He was asking me questions about myself.

Some people dream about transparent birds flying out of rainbow lakes. I dream about Non Emailer emailing me.

Yep, dreams can be pretty fantastical.

Coffee between friends

"Guess what Tom did for me today?" Aly gushed.

"I don't know, what?" Beth said as she sipped her coffee.

"He sent roses to my office every hour, each hour with a different colored set of roses!" she squealed. "And for no reason except to say that he loves me!"

"Wow, that's great," Beth replied, trying to smile. "That's almost as sweet as a guy showing up an hour late on a first date and calling you the wrong name."

"Oh forget about Mark! Sorry you had such a crappy date."

"It's okay."

"Don't worry," Aly replied. "You'll find someone," she added with a knowing nod.

For a moment, Beth remained silent. "Umm," she said slowly, "Yeah, I know I'll find someone, but thanks."

"I didn't mean it like that," Aly replied. "I mean, you're smart, funny and cute. You're a catch! You deserve so much better than that Mark. One day you'll find someone as great as my Tom!"

Great as my Tom? Beth glared at Aly. "I really appreciate your condescending pep talk, really I do," Beth replied, "but spare me your pity. You're actually making me feel worse."

Aly sighed and looked at Beth in the eye.

Beth looked back at Aly. "What?"

Aly shook her head and said, "I can't win with you, can I?"

"You always win," Beth replied, her voice grating. "That's your shtick."

"Look, just because I'm in a relationship and you're not doesn't mean you can be bitchy to me," Aly said, blinking thoughtfully.

"Wow, you're funny."

"Face it," Aly sighed. "You're jealous."

"Like I said, you're funny," Beth replied deadpan. "Truly."

"I'm not going to feel bad because I have a boyfriend and you don't. And I don't need to apologize for being happy."

"Excuse me," Beth said, "I don't believe I asked for an apology for you being happy."

"You didn't need to. Your bitterness says enough," Aly said, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes.

Beth couldn't help but laugh. "You're so sad."

"Excuse me?"

"You sit there, so smug. All because of Tom." Beth stood up and threw a ten dollar bill on the table. "Your self-worth and superiority all hinge on Tom."

Aly continued to stare at Beth.

Beth continued, "I'd hate to see what happens if that ended. What will you have then? Certainly no friends, given the way you're acting."

Aly rolled her eyes.

"While I appreciate the gesture, you can't pity me," Beth declared. She swung her purse over her shoulder and smiled. "I hope you and Tom have a happy life together. The alternative would be--" Beth searched for the right word "--pitiable."

So you think you can dance

To ensure that I have hobbies other than analyzing how I turn guys off, I signed up for a cardio class at a local dance studio. It's a "cardio striptease" class, where you learn "sexy moves" in the form of a cardio workout. No, you don't actually strip and yes, you actually do engage in a cardio workout, as I learned in the first class this past Saturday.

It was around noon and I walked into the studio and tentatively placed my purse on the window sill. I surveyed the other girls in the class. They looked to be yuppies or yuppies-to-be, in the twenty to thirty-something age range. The instructor, a professionally trained dancer and a former cheerleader for the city's NBA team, walked in with a cheery air of confidence, tossed her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, and beamed at the class. Her fitted turquoise tank top and black tights did little to hide her well-earned athletic physique. I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and couldn't help but feel frumpy in my baggy sweatpants and billowy t-shirt.

Before we learned our routine, we did a warm-up. One of our less modest moves was literally lying on our backs and thrusting our pelvises up and down. In other words, humping the air. As I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, humping the air, I mused over the vision this would be for some random guy if he were to walk in. A bunch of twenty/thirty-something year old girls wearing tank tops on their backs, fornicating with the air.

But not every exercise was a pornstar-in-training move. There were sit-ups, leg lifts, push-ups. The most arduous part was extending our arms sideways and moving them in little circles. Sounds so easy, but it was sucking my will to live. Some girls had to stop after a while because it was so hard.

After our warm-up, we learned our dance routine. At first, I was totally lost, trying to keep up with all the seemingly complicated dance moves. But after a while, I sort of got it and, with the dance music playing, got into it. The swishing of our hips and calculated head tilts became fun.

Okay so it may be a while before we become the newest version of the Pussycat Dolls. This morning I woke up in pain. My entire body -- my legs, back, stomach, arms -- ached. I can barely walk without looking arthritic. Still though, I must admit it's a satisfying soreness, the kind that tells you that you had a good workout. I know that eventually the soreness will go away, and soon all of us will be athletic dancing sex goddesses. That, or at least in better shape.

Mirror mirror on the wall...uh, nevermind

Whenever a guy does not like a girl back, a girl tends to blame at least one of two things: (1) her looks, and/or (2) her personality. Because men are such visual creatures and our culture glorifies appearance over substance, I think most girls tend to blame the former: their looks.

I was chatting with the Naysayer the other night, contemplating over the Non Emailer debacle, and couldn't help but succumb to that 12 year old insecurity. I resisted at first, but I had to ask him: "It's not because he thinks I'm ugly, right?" and "I'm not ugly...am I?" -- to which he yelled at me, "NO."

Yes, I'm well aware I broke "The Rules" and hence that may be why Non Emailer is revolted by me. But come on, if Jessica Alba or Angelina Jolie broke the Rules by calling a guy instead of waiting for him to call her, I don't think the guy would be revolted by her un-ladylike forwardness. Let's face it, the Rules are different for the truly beautiful women, as opposed to the not-bad-looking, sometimes-looks-cute-in-certain-lighting girls.

So I told the Naysayer that a lot of girls (at least in my case) can't help but think, "Oh if I were only prettier, then he'd like me back." His response: "That's probably true." But he added: "With Non Emailer though, I don't think that's the case. It just wasn't there."

Yes, I know that personality accounts for a lot, but I think having the prettier face gets your foot in the door, so to speak. Having a prettier face softens a guy, weakens his defenses, and opens him up to the possibility of liking you. While those of us with a less-than-gorgeous mug face an uphill battle.

Not that I'm butt. (Or am I?!) I just wouldn't mind being that effortlessly gorgeous gal.

Then again, a downside to being effortlessly gorgeous is that a gal will attract too many guys, so many guys that it's a task to weed out the undesirables and to ascertain whether or not a guy likes her for her, or her breasts.

I suppose either way, it's tough.

Like I said before, it's so fun being a girl.

Don't try this at home

Some would say spontaneity is a positive quality. A spontaneous gal will go on a last-minute weekend trip to a nearby lake or impulsively walk up to a group of people at a party and say "hi" without worrying over what to say and just wing it. I am occasionally spontaneous, and in most instances, a fun time ensues.

I've recently discovered however that there is a downside to having occasional bouts of spontaneity. Spontaneity necessarily involves lack of premeditation. And so sometimes, this "positive quality" will induce the holder of it to do something stupid, like, for example, throw all The Rules out the window and on a spur of the moment click on the "compose" button in her email program to write a stupid email to Non Email Guy under the pretense of some professional objective.

Yeah.

As soon as I sent it, I internally screamed. All those suggestions from some of my friends sprung to mind: "Men like the chase," and "Don't you want a guy who has the balls to pursue you?" blah blah blah. But then I thought of the other adages: "If a guy likes a girl, it doesn't really matter who does what," and even more compelling, "Fuck 'The Rules.' "

So what happened? Well he replied. I thought and hoped, "Oh, if I get the conversational ball rolling, he'll see I'm totally interested and suggest hanging out or something." And so we emailed back and forth several more times, where I segued the conversation from professional pretense to more friendlier topics. And then...the emails just ended. No dates lined up. No follow up questions. Just silence.

When I reported this to the Naysayer, he first yelled at me for not giving Non Emailer more signals (I apparently was not "suggestive" or flirty enough), and then wavered in his explanation as to why Non Emailer didn't ask me out: Either (1) he doesn't like me, or (2) he's a wuss. "So even if he does like you," the Naysayer reasoned, "do you want to date a guy who's such a wuss?"

Guess not. Though of course that ball was never in my court.

While I admit, this may not be the End of the Saga of the Non Emailer, I can't help but feel deflated. Ah well. I may be good at tempting fate. Just not men.

Well

After consulting 5 guys and 4 gals, and reading comments from Loofa & Anonymous, I have come to the conclusion that Non Email Dude more likely than not has some modicum of interest.

Armed with this newfound knowledge, I will now...continue to sit by the computer waiting for him to email me.

It's so fun being a girl.

Waiting by the computer (a.k.a. musings of a stupid neurotic girl who may or may not like a guy who may or may not like her back)

I had met you a couple weeks ago at a business event. We’ve hung out (in a group of course) a couple times since. We chatted a bit; we seemed to connect pretty well. I thought you were cool and so I gave you my business card.

I’m not sure as to whether or not I like you. And so when you followed up the following Monday with a short friendly email to my work address to just me, not the group, but just me, I thought, well, maybe. You asked in your email for my personal email address. I responded accordingly and quipped about the weather. You responded and – unsolicited – volunteered your non-work email address. We shot a couple emails back and forth. And that was it. All of this occurred on Monday.

Today is Friday. Why the hell haven’t you emailed me yet?! Why would someone ask for a spoon if they weren’t going to use it? Similarly, why would you ask for my personal email address if you weren’t going to email me? Am I supposed to email you? Both guy and gal pals advise against my emailing you. “Let him come to you,” they tell me. “But he’s not!” I insist. “He will,” they say.

But you haven’t. Like I said, today is Friday.

So the question on my mind is, was your email a purely professional gesture? According to the Naysayer, guys don’t affirmatively “follow up” with girls asking for their personal email addresses unless there was some modicum of interest (hopefully non-professional, if not unprofessional).

But then again, maybe you’re one of those guys who go above and beyond to extend your network of business contacts. You like to garner the personal email addresses of all potential clients because it establishes camaraderie, rapport and all that other bull shit.

Yet, if it was purely professional, then why, after already having my business email, would you ask for my personal email?

It is this tiny thread of logic upon which I hinge my hope that you may like me back. Pathetic, I know.

So I am meeting up with my guy friend later. I keep imagining that he and I will bump into you while we’re downtown and that once you see me with this strange gentleman, you’ll be overcome with a fit of jealousy so unbearable that you will have no choice but to do what you haven’t done all week – email me.

So let’s cut all this nonsense out. Save some room on blogger.com. End the speculation.

Email me.

Thank you Girl in the Pink Shirt

You were there when I needed you. I walked up to the bar next to you to order a drink. A strange man walked up to me and said "Excuse me." I looked at him and said "Hi."

"Hi," he said. He looked at the jade bracelet on my right arm, pointed to it, and asked, "Did you have to dislocate your arm to get that bracelet on?" I watched him then twist his own arm behind his back to reenact a dislocated arm. I was genuinely confused, and replied, "No, I didn't. I just...put it on my wrist."

"Wow," he said. "It's because you have such tiny wrists!"

"I guess," I said. "Well you can just squeeze it on." Then I awkwardly demonstrated it.

"Wow," he said.

Sensing the utter painfulness of the conversation, you - the Girl in Pink Shirt - turned to me suddenly and asked me, "Hey have you ever tried this drink before?" A matching pink drink sat before you and my eyes lit up and I said, "No I haven't!" and excitedly asked, "What is it?"

"Oh it's a Hawaiian breeze," you replied, locking eyes with me and smiling.

"Oh really? Cool!" I replied.

"Want a taste?"

"Sure!!" I enthused not breaking any eye contact with you. "Wow, that's good!" I then ordered the drink from the bartender. Meanwhile, in the background, the Dislocated Arm Guy cowered sheepishly and walked away.

"Delicious," I said when I got my drink.

You leaned into me, murmured "You're welcome by the way," smiled, and walked away.

So dear Girl in the Pink Shirt, thank you for rescuing me. I appreciate it.

The bad person

We all like to think we're good people. We all like to think we do the right thing. Yes, we make mistakes once in a while, but when it comes to the real thing, the big thing, we do the right thing. That's what separates the good people from the bad people. Bad people have no soul, no conscience. They wear trench coats, hide in corners with bombs and guns, and do bad things because they are selfish and hateful.

But what do you do when you look in the mirror and realize, you're one of them? You thought all along that you were one of the good guys, at least one of the nice ones, but you're not.

These realizations of course don't occur during the evil conduct. They happen afterwards. They happen when someone gets hurt. They happen when you get caught. They happen when someone dies.

When Theresa left the bar that evening at 1:45 am, she thought she was a good person. She was feeling pretty good, at least. She had downed a couple shots of tequila chased by a couple pints of beer. Then she had another shot for good measure. As she got up to leave, the bartender yelped to her, "I'm calling you a cab!" But she yelped back, "Already did!" and watched him hang up the phone as she walked out the door.

Theresa was feeling very drowsy, very loopy, and very drunk. She pulled the keys from her pocket and placed the key into her door. Wrong key. That was the trunk door key. She tried again. There, that opened it. She plopped inside and closed the door shut and took a deep breath.

"Don't drink and drive," a sign outside the bar said. Don't drink and drive. How many times did she hear that? The television messages with the home videos of children being pushed on swingsets that later reveal that this happy smiling child was killed by a drunk driver. The text on every beer or liquor ad that said "Drink responsibly -- Don't drink and drive." She was no fool. She could read. She watched the news. And most importantly, she was a good person.

She stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine groaned beneath her. But aren't you drunk? she heard a small voice ask inside. Are you okay to drive?

Of course, of course she was. Theresa was smart. She was no fool.

Not far down the road, a blue sedan was driving at 55 miles per hour. A small boy and girl lay asleep in the back, the father was reclined in the passenger seat, and the mother was driving steadily, listening to the soft sound of Fleetwood Mac on the radio. Ten minutes later, the bumper of Theresa's car severed the mother and father's heads, and flattened the boy's body. The little girl, who happened to be crouching very low as she slept, survived with a broken arm and cracked ribs.

Theresa, unfortunately, survived. She woke up in the hospital with a concussion. The nurses and doctors and aides surrounded her bed and spoke with clipped words and monotones. Something was not right, she thought. This was later confirmed by a judge during her sentencing. Her father was, unfortunately, a hot-shot lawyer with ties to the local government. Theresa did not get jail time. Instead, she was placed on probation and ordered to perform several thousand hours of community service. The media hated it and loved it.

On no particular day, Theresa took a seat in the break room of the nursing home. She had just wheeled food to the elderly for several hours. "Just breathe," she said. It was what she had told herself so many times before, during the court proceedings, during the media hounding, during her parents' torrential lectures on what a horrible thing she did was, during her daily ritual of scrolling emails that had subject lines like "Burn in hell, Theresa," "Fuck you whore," and "Murderer."

She went to the restroom and looked in the mirror and saw herself, really saw herself, and realized she was not one of the good people. The sight of the mangled bodies was branded in her memory. She murdered a family. She ruined a girl's life. In a simple moment of arrogance, she chose to be bad. She knew it wasn't a "mistake," as she tried to argue, it wasn't an "accident." She knew what she was doing. She knew it was wrong. And she did it. And thanks to her dad, she had virtually no reckoning, no punishment. A father, a mother and a brother were rotting in their graves. And Theresa was above ground and wheeling food to geriatrics.

So many times she called upon that moment, when she sat in her car with the key in the ignition, reading that sign. How simple it would have been to just follow the sign. To let the bartender call a cab. To sleep it off in the car. To do something else, anything else, other than what she actually did. She visited this moment over and over again, wishing she could change it, hating herself for being one of the bad people. She cried herself to sleep every night and wishing she could die, and knowing that so many people agreed.

What made a bad person bad? Was it the choices they made? Their intent while choosing the wrong choice? The consequences? If a person did something bad and no one got hurt, was the person bad? Bad people didn't feel regret, did they? Nor guilt? Jeffrey Dahmer apologized to the families of his victims. Wasn't he still a bad person?

Theresa didn't know what made a bad person bad. All she knew was that she was one of them.

A woman's man

"I am such a girl." This is what my friend, the Naysayer, said to me the other day. Unaware of his recent sex change operation, I asked, "You're a girl?"

"I am such a girl," he repeated.

I bit. "Why are you such a girl?"

"Because," he said matter-of-factly, "I am such a girl." Then it all came out. The Naysayer wasn't so much a girl as much as he was hopelessly pining over a girl. The Girl. The Smart Pretty Funny Girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts. (Seriously, I saw her picture.) They hung out a couple of times, and the Naysayer's confidence and all sense of dignity plummeted into the realm of uncertainty, neuroses, fear, insecurity, clinginess, and the other emotions that necessarily accompany the phenomenon of dating a smart, pretty, funny girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Naomi Watts.

"Oooh, I don't know if she likes me," he whined to me.

"I think she likes you," I assured him.

"Are you sure? How can you be sure? What if she doesn't?" he asked petulantly.

"Because she texted you. Unsolicited. She called you. Unsolicited. She asked you out. Twice. And she spent Valentine's Day with you," I said. "She could have been busy, you know. But no, she spent it with [insert gasp] you."

"Oooh, I hope she likes me!" he said in a falsetto voice.

"She introduced you to her friends," I added.

"She is going to dump me, isn't she?"

"She kissed you."

"It's over, isn't it?"

I groaned. Absent a marriage proposal, I was not sure how else the Girl could exhibit any more signs that she liked him. The Naysayer, since having first met the Girl, has called me at least twice a night, asking me to analyze every physical act she did or did not engage in, for example, how she didn't respond in the affirmative when he said "I'll talk to you later" as they got off the phone ("What does that mean?! I'm getting dumped!"). Each possible sign of rejection is thoroughly examined and obsessed over.

Then I wondered. Is it a "girl" thing? To obsess and pine and overanalyze and go nuts over a nuanced inflection in someone's voice when she says "pass the salt"? The careful balancing of appearing interested and attracted but not clingy or desperate? Is that "such a girl" thing to do? And if it's "such a girl" thing to do, then why do guys obsess like this?

Last night, I literally spent one hour -- one whole hour of my life that I'll never get back -- examining all the possible reasons why the Naysayer should or should not text the Girl, and if not text, then whether or not to call, and if not call, then whether or not to email. And if any of those three possibilities were to take place, then which day should contact take place? Because it was Monday and asking out for Saturday seems too clingy -- or was it just assertive and forward-thinking? "I don't want to scare her off!" "The ball's in her court, right?" "Oooh, I hope she likes me!"

Tonight the Naysayer issued his nightly report on the Girl. He did not text her last night. Instead, she texted him. ("Oooh, I hope she likes me!") He waited until this morning to text her back. Then she texted him back, asking follow-up questions. Then he texted her back, answering her questions, but, he added sheepishly, "I didn't ask her follow-up questions."

The reason I am regaling you people with this nonsensical anecdote is that I want you all to relive the experience, the scintillating experience, of being friends with a guy who is a "such a girl," but really, is just a guy.

A cell phone number

The other day, I was sitting in the train without a book or mp3 player to entertain me. I whipped out my cell phone and began scrolling through my address book, deleting people I no longer kept in touch with or pizza delivery places I no longer ordered from. Deleting someone from your cell phone is an interesting phenomenon. For some people, I suppose it's very perfunctory. "Never gonna talk to that person again, delete." For me, because I tend to overthink things, I wonder, "Really, am I never ever going to talk to this person ever again, ever?" (Yes, a tad dramatic. But that is what some of us do to distract ourselves from the daily monotony that is our lives.) So you never know, you just might need that taxi cab number in your cell for the next time you're in Tampa, Florida.

Of course, as I scrolled through my numbers, I inevitably encountered the entry, "Dad."

My dad got rid of his cell phone while he was alive and so I never got around to deleting it. Then after he passed away, deleting it just seemed so harsh, not to mention the last thing on my mind.

OKAY, I understand it's just an allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.

But I suppose deleting his number signified the beginning of something. Something that I don't want to begin. Something uncomfortable and sad. So I tried to be perfunctory about it. Like, "Bob the Pizza guy, delete." So now it's "Dad, delete." And when my phone asked me, "Confirm Erase?" with a choice between yes and no, I couldn't help but notice the "No" option had been pre-selected, as if my cell phone were asking me, "Come on, you're not seriously thinking about deleting this entry, are you? Because if you do, it will be deleted forever. So confirm it, but I'm guessing it's 'no,' that's why I have it already selected for you."

I bit my lip, selected "Yes," and hit "Okay." And it was deleted. My cell phone was sure to display an image of an eraser moving across a floppy disk to illustrate to me that indeed, I was erasing something from the memory of my phone.

And then I began to cry. Stupid, I know. It's just a number. An allocated number of bytes inside my cell phone, that's all it is, nothing more, nothing less. It's not like I'm deleting him from my life or my memories. Just his number.

Fly away

There is nothing quite like walking around all day, having conversations with various co-workers and fellow elevator riders, getting a cup of coffee, chatting with the Starbucks personnel, and meandering around the office to later discover that the entire time your fly was open.

Really, nothing quite like it.

Photograph

When someone completely disappears from your life, you sometimes wonder if the person was ever there to begin with. That disappearance is so stark, so sudden, that it leaves you with the feeling that maybe you hallicinated that entire experience, that entire portion of your life involving that person, and that person altogether.

But once in a while, you rummage through your closet for a book or a pen, and you happen to see an old photo of that person. With you. And you remember, yes, there was one point where you and this person co-existed. Happy even. But the picture looks so foreign, so aged, that you wonder if it's fake, or if this is someone else's photo you're looking at.

You recall distinct memories. Specific meals with bad food. The inverted umbrella at the corner of 53rd and Third. The debate on why Healthy Choice was more cardboard-tasting than Lean Cuisine.

Yes, these events had to have happened. They're in your memory. You see them, can close your eyes and relive them, the words coming from your mouth, the sound of the person's voice, the bumpy ride in the car as you rode alongside in the passenger side, your forearm warm beneath the outdoor sun. You assure yourself, you remind yourself, yes, this person used to be here. He may be gone, but he's still here.

Blogger's block

It feels like it's been a while since I've blogged, but it's been only a week. I think I used to blog once, twice, sometimes three times a day. I could attribute this to busier workweeks, less drama, my dating haitus, my attempt to be more zen and complain less, among other things.

Another reason to add on top of those reasons is that I've recently begun taking a writing class. It's more like a creative writing workshop, just something I do for fun, though it's costing me a pretty penny. The instructor in the first day of class showed us a stack of books his former students had published. I'm pretty sure that every student in the workshop is itching to publish a novel or screenplay. I'm also pretty sure that very few will. So I have no delusions about being a NY Times bestseller or Book Award winner. It's just interesting to "learn" about writing creatively, when all this time, I kind of just write when I want to write. I don't think about the "craft," character development, dialogue structure, conflict and resolution. It's just sort of there.

So at the end of each class, the instructor gives us a little writing exercise. He throws out a few ideas to write on (e.g., write something using the words "albino," "sex," and "supermarket," or write something about meeting someone's parents for the first time). And then for the next half hour we write.

I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I write when I feel like it. It just sort of happens. But when I was trying to force myself to think of a story with an albino having sex with a supermarket clerk, I just couldn't do it. I mean, did anyone instruct Ernest Hemingway to write about an old dude fishing? Aren't stories just inspired, or derived from events in our lives that inspire us? I suppose every author is different.

Anyway, we'll see how it goes. Although I have to admit, it does feel nice to see your writing in print, even if it is on a blog.

That wasn't me

Few things are more disturbing than surfing the web and seeing a picture of a girl on the internet who looks just like you. This has happened to me a couple times, and given the plethora of Asian chicks on the web, I suppose I'm lucky to have only seen "myself" twice. Fortunately, these Yellow Gal look-alikes were doing innocuous things like smiling for a mortgage loan ad or new web service.

So far, so good.

The Spice

There are very few things I brag about. Well, let's be honest, there are very few things I can brag about. One thing though is the sit-and-reach test. I usually get sixty-something centimeters. In other words, I can almost touch my toes with my elbows without bending my knees. Another "gift" is my tongue: I can touch my nose, my cheeks and well down my chin with my tongue. So yes, I may not have been born with fantastic brains or boobs, but I can touch my toes and lick my drool.

Yet another thing I can brag about and in fact do brag about is my ability to eat spicy food. Yeah yeah, they say every Asian has some gene that enables her/him to handle the spice; but I have yet to meet anyone who could surpass me. I intimated as much once to a co-worker.

"You are the queen of spice, you say?" he laughed, mockingly.

"Yep," I said brazenly, "I am."

He laughed at me more and I stood there, smiling demurely. When lunch time came around, I took from the office fridge a bottle of habanero sauce the Naysayer had purchased for me from Mexico. As I drenched my Au Bon Pain sandwich with the green sauce, that same co-worker asked me, "Hey Yellow Gal, can I have a dab of that?"

"Sure," I said, and handed the bottle to him. As he dripped a single droplet onto the edge of his plate, I mused over the tiny opening of the bottle. I surmised there was some reason the bottle only let out one drop at a time.

My co-worker took the edge of his turkey sandwich, tentatively dipped a sharp corner of the white bread into the eerily green sauce, and took a bite. And chewed.

I continued eating my sandwich without incident when I heard a gasp. I looked at my co-worker and his skin had changed from lily white to a brilliant shade of magenta. I watched him swallow painfully and take a gulp of his Diet Pepsi. "Oh my god," he gasped, "that sauce is SPICY."

"Oh really?" I said, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess it does have 'a kick.' "

"Come ON you have to admit it's more than just 'a kick' ..." he said between gulps of his soda.

"Yeah, I guess it does," I said amused.

That was the last time he ever mocked me.

So all my friends bow down to me in my spicy superiority and dominance over all who come before me. They grow accustomed to my expected request to the waiter to make my dishes "extra extra spicy, as spicy as you can possibly make it," my unscrewing the caps to bottles of red pepper flakes so that I could pour--not sprinkle--red pepper onto my dish, and my ability to eat habaneros and Thai peppers like they were carrots or peas.

So being the spice connoisseur, I have learned that there is a distinction between spicy foods and sauces, and foods and sauces that purport to be spicy.

My first gripe: I dislike it when a food/sauce proclaims itself to be spicy when in fact it happens to contain a little more black pepper than usual, a few specs of red pepper, and a lot of salt. The food/condiment industry seems to have mistaken saltiness for spiciness. This is simply wrong. Salt is salt. Black pepper is black pepper. Red pepper is red pepper. Simply adding Red No. 3, a fleck of red pepper, and a ton of salt does not transform a sauce into "hot sauce."

A corollary to this gripe involves the vinegar ingredient. I used to be a huge Tabasco sauce fan in high school and in college. After going through a bottle a month for several years, I frankly got sick of it. I later realized that while Tabasco sauce does contain a modicum of spiciness, its vinegar and salt overwhelms the red pepper ingredient, such that any food you happen to season with Tabasco sauce tastes like Tabasco sauce, not steak, not spaghetti, not soup. Just Tabasco sauce. I'd rather have beef that's spicy, not beef that tastes like solidified Tabasco sauce.

The better sauces have more habaneros or Thai chili peppers (as opposed to mere jalapenos or cayenne), less salt, and less vinegar. The lack of salt and vinegar allow the natural flavors of the underlying food to come through.

Okay so as you can tell, I love spicy food. I was reminded of this fact at 5 PM today. The day was waning, and I started getting the shakes. My palms began to sweat. What was going on?

Then I realized it: I hadn't consumed any spiciness all day. The absence was palpable, almost unbearable. I grabbed a cup of microwaveable soup from my stash, microwaved it, and once the microwave beeped, I seized the bowl and dribbled some of my green habanero sauce into it. The warmth on my tongue was most welcoming. It hurt so good.

So it looks like I am a walking contradiction. I am both the master of, and yet a slave to, the Spice.

My spam box rocks

Case in point:

He dreamed of Annie Wilkes in the court of some fabulous Arabian caliph, conjuring imps and genies from bottles and then flying around the court on a magic carpet. Its only five in the afternoon, but that is no problem for these kitties; as far as South American lions are concerned, that dinner-at-eight shit is for goofballs.

Who makes this ish up?

Just a tip

Fellas, never, ever send a desperate, needy email to a girl you really like who doesn't like you back at all and include in the email things like the following:

I do and will always love and lust after you from this moment until the end of time, for ever and ever. If you ever change your mind about us, and, in my endeavor to deserve you, you decide to give me a chance, I will forever be grateful and will be here for you with open arms. Until then, I will always cherish the memories I have of us and will thank God that I at least had the chance to know someone as beautiful, wonderful and sexy as you.

If you do send such an email to a girl, she will forward it to her girlfriends, and her girlfriends will forward it to their girlfriends, and one of these latter girlfriends will post portions of your email in her blog. Chances are, fellas, that such an email will not persuade the girl to fall in love with you. So please, don't do it.