My Affliction

There are very few things that we can count on in this day and age. What with the tragic downfall of so many household names in the last year like Circuit City, Lehman Brothers, GMC, and... Cafe Intermezzo (apparently the Intermezzo that I knew and loved while a student at UC Berkeley got bought out and renamed to Cafe Mattina, but no worries, everything is still the same. Right down to the overly pierced and tattooed, transient delicatessens that man the sandwich counter. I swear the only differences between the people behind the counter and the bums sitting on the sidewalk are the blue aprons that they wear.) But in my life I've discovered a few things that I can definitely bank on. Math will never be fun, I'll always spill or splatter food on myself whenever I'm wearing white, my mom will invariably show my naked baby pictures to anybody I bring home, and... I'll always be crushing on some girl. It's as regular as clockwork. This week it's Miss Farrell from Mad Men. Last week it was the girl who helped me at Bloomingdales. The week before, Olivia Wilde.

This affliction started one crisp autumn day almost two decades ago when I was sitting at my little square desk listening attentively to Miss Kawaratani explain the difference between numerators and denominators. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of gold disappear under the adjacent rows of polished maple. My curiosity piqued, I turned my head just in time to have my breath taken away by the vision in front of me. Goldilocks, sans porridge, was sitting not 6 feet away from me twirling the No. 2 pencil that she had just bent down to pick up. I was mesmerized by the simple motion of her agile fingers and sat there gaping at the blue-eyed maiden in wonderment for a full minute before a switch clicked on in the back of my head. I realized that girls, were different than boys. And not because they have long hair or because they can twirl and flip on the pullup bars during recess (I tried it once... but even in my undeveloped state, it still hurt to have a metal bar there). Girls, I realized, are pretty. Prettier than the way my mom tied the frilly ribbons around my birthday gifts. Prettier even, than the ninja turtle figurine perfectly sealed in its plastic case that was inside the box. Lauren, the little blond haired girl, captivated me, and, for the first time in my 8 years of life, I was 'in love'.

That was the moment I started liking girls. I started looking at the world through a completely different set of eyes. All girls intrigued me, but I paid special attention to the pretty ones. Though my bumbling advances weren't well received since I was 'Jason chubby fatso' (my nickname in middle school). Lauren told me to 'go away!' and broke my poor little prepubescent heart. But my recovery was swift and it didn't take long before I latched on to my next crush, Judy, a tomboy with a pretty smile and long flowing black hair. Since then, countless crushes have come and gone. And as the ladies around me drift in and out of my life, I've come to terms with their ephemeral presence. They thunder in like a 1,000 year storm and leave with but the trace of a fleeting kiss. Oh Alba... we could have been something wonderful together. But you, like all the others, left me to marry the rich guy.

And now, after a year of being single, I ask myself, am I in a rut? Two decades and a five year relationship later, I'm back splashing around in the same wading pool of love that I was in when I was 8 years old. The only difference is that I've shed my bright yellow water wings and replaced it with a sleek, slim-fitting black life vest (Dolce?). Is it time to once again tiptoe towards the deep end of the pool where the possibility of drowning is much higher? Diving head first into the murky depths of love is terrifying. I tried it once and barely made it out with my heart intact. But when are we ever 'ready' for love? Doesn't it just hit you when you're least aware and drag you away kicking and screaming? With all these uncertainties floating around in my head, I fell back on the reassuring lyrics of my favorite lullaby as a child. ‘Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.’ All we can do is to take deep breaths and try not to be stressed out by life's problems. Settled, I decided that I’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow... night brings.

Carpe Noctem Biatches!

My Family Heirloom

My dad came up to me one day and said, "Son, lemme fuck you up with some knowledge. Read this book."

SWF: On Meeting Men

As part of a reader outreach program I dubbed the Typical Asian Male Mutual Interest Enterprise (or TAMMIE for short) I asked several readers if they would like to contribute to this blog and received a surprising level of interest. So thus the writer becomes the editor and I present to you SWF, single white female, the author of what I hope will become a series of entries that will run parallel to my own and inject insight from the opposite end of the spectrum.
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SWF: On meeting men.

Personal ads. Most of us are probably too young to remember a time when the Desperate turned to the awkward, cryptic, acronym-ridden Penis Wanted ads in the local newspaper.

“S/W/F looking for S/W/M, employed, likes long walks on beach, romantic getaways. Oh yea, must love dogs.” Early 90’s throw-back: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krzCeKZxfQ8... yea you girls remember this song!

I’ve always wondered, how much those ads cost. They couldn't have been any more expensive than joining Match.com. (Which btw, Glamour Magazine described as “Baskin-Robbins’ 31 flavors: blondes, redheads, Egyptians and probably a set of Siamese twins if you were to search long enough.”) These days, it’s all about SEO (Search Engine Optimization). Don't lie... you know you've Googled yourself! There are blogs all over the net providing hot tips and tricks to increase your twitter traffic (even.. dare I say it, blog traffic?), to ensure that you’re getting your message out about who you are, what you stand for, and… what you had for dinner last night. Let's face it ladies, social media branding isn’t just for entrepreneurs. While branding yourself may have initially seemed like it was career-oriented, nothing is ever quite so simple. I, for one, have had enough with the endless void of shameless self-promotion and cyber dating space.

Most recently, my girlfriends and I have been discussing the more traditional ways in which we meet men--and that goes beyond the bar. There's nothing tackier, or riskier than meeting a guy in a bar or at a club. No one is really there to meet someone worth starting a lasting, serious relationship. Your TAM said it best, we're there to dance and score free drinks. So where are the best spots to meet "The One?" Here are my top 5 alternative real world hotspots for women to meet men.

1. Probably the best place is Home Depot... or any hardware store. You just walk up to the cutest guy you see and say "Do you know where I get nailed? I mean nails? Pardon me, I've been drinking all afternoon." And that way he knows: one, you're easy, and two, you like to drink.

2. The grocery store. TIP: Ladies, you see a man walking around with a list in his hands. Move on. He’s most likely married, or gay if you’re in SF. Instead, you'll catch the one with a basket in the frozen food aisle. Accidentally bump into him while reaching for a bag of frozen margarita mix and BAM--Instant conversation starter! Personally, I like to hang out by the fruits and vegetables, there's a better chance of getting a guy who's health-conscious.

3. The Gym. This piggy-backs on the fruits and veggies guy. You know he’s healthy, or at least active, as well as how much he sweats. Just start a conversation by asking him to help you with your form.

4. A Concert in the park. This is particularly true for women in San Francisco. You’ll know right away if you share a love for the same music group/genre, as well as whether or not he showers regularly.

5. The Office. Ok… so, tons of people say don’t dip your pen in company ink. But, the fact of the matter is that we spend more time with folks on the job than with anyone else. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9JGq-q63rU). And while I don't recommend starting anything too serious with a co-worker, I wouldn’t frown upon meeting your cube-mate's hottie roommate.

So what's the bottom line? It's all about your approach. Reserve the hooker boots/heels for the club. Save beer pong for Cal Game days. And most of all, be open to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the cute guy squeezing peaches a couple feet away could be your next boyfriend.

What are your favorite unconventional places to meet men?

My... Game?

Everybody has things they'd rather not have other people find out about. Whether it be the 8 year relationship the South Carolina governor had with his Argentinean mistress or the fact that I use Shiseido products (don't hate... my mom started me on them years ago and I got hooked). The truth typically comes out sooner or later. So fueled by this realization I've decided to come out and admit to my friends that I've been living under false pretenses. Some of you may already know. Some of you may have already guessed. The douchey asshole you see at clubs with the horrible lines and cat calls is merely a cover-up and an overcompensation of sorts. My metrosexual tendencies should have been a major tell (my closet is organized by color and I cried in the first ten minutes of Up.. all three times I watched it). But I figure it's time to come out of the closet and tell the whole world. After all, we live in SF and I'm definitely not the only one in the city with this affliction.

So therefore, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I am... a hopeless romantic..

Recently, in a bout of extreme loneliness, I succumbed to a romantic movie marathon complete with Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Sprawled on my couch amidst a sea of empty candy wrappers and half full cups of hot chocolate spiked with Baileys, I had a moment. In an estrogen and chocolate filled epiphany, I reconnected with my inner romantic. It was beautiful. An Amazing Grace, lost but now I'm found kind of moment. For those of you that know me, you know that this is a huge deal. Over the last couple years I've become more and more cynical and jaded about my perception of love. Gone was the wide-eyed youngster with dreams of fairytale romance. In his place, a battled-hardened Spartan rose like a phoenix from the ashes that once was that naive little boy. For the last year, I became love's vigilante, scouring the night for slighted men to offer my services as wingman and combat the evil ladyfolk that lurk in the dark corners of the night... clubs.

But I've since hung up my mask and cape. Clubbing no longer appeals to me. Girls at clubs aren't looking for a Mr. Right or even a Mr. Right Now. All they want is to dance away their troubles and possibly get a free drink. Men are optional. (See Object of the Game for more on this). Watching Definitely, Maybe by myself on a Friday night (pathetic, I know and worse, my Netflix recommendations now consists solely of chick flicks) made me realize that love is still out there (along with the fact that guys should never watch romance movies alone. It's like instant emo, just add scotch. We need to institute a buddy system for chick flicks. Leave no pansy behind!). If you didn't find the right girl the first time, or the second time.. or the tenth time, it's no reason to throw in the towel. If Rocky Balboa can make six boxing movies while fighting the onset of arthritis, there's no reason why I should lose hope at my age... or even at his age. I just need to tweak my outlook and rework my approach.

But until I formulate a workable game plan, I'll continue overcompensating and strutting around the dance floor grinding up on girls and spilling drinks on unsuspecting prey. Holla! After all, it's a proven fact that girls like assholes and nice guys finish last. I'll just have to quench my yearnings for a happily ever after through yet another Rachel McAdams movie marathon. So... anyone free next Friday?