I’m a Jinius

So all my girlfriends who did Match.com came out severely traumatized. One friend met a guy on Match who seemed normal and nice and ended up being in a relationship with him. Then his true colors eventually came out. She now refers to him as 666. My other friend calls her Match guy “Bi-polar pyscho”

I like to call my Match guys “Sixty dollars I will never see again.”

I was planning on writing a whole post on this but I just finished watching the original Dawn of the Dead and am still recovering. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t knock on our door and ask if everything was okay because my roommate and I were screaming like banshees.

OMIGOD DON’T GO IN THERE! DON’T GO IN THERE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH EEEEEEEEEK AAAAARRRRRRRH!!!!!!

Here are some more lessons on surviving a zombie apocalpyse:

1. Do not enter abandoned buildings
2. If you do enter an abandoned building you certainly do NOT bring your pregnant girlfriend with you!!!!
3. If you leave your bag somewhere never go back to retrieve it.
4.Better hope you’re not a white dude because you’ll be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse
5.Run

I think it’s fitting that I’m talking about Match.com and zombies in the same post.

1. I’m on my second week of “not drinking alcohol during the week” program and spend most of my time being antisocial, working on my play, watching reality shows on Bravo, and reading in bed. Sobriety is overrated!!!

2. I deleted the 25 year old’s number because he suffers from an acute case of texticular cancer*–a disease that afflicts men in the island of Manhattan between the ages of 21-40. Symptoms include texting in the middle of the night, texting instead of calling, texting while out drinking, texting instead of talking, carpal tunnels syndrome as a result of texting, and a wan complexion due to the glowing screen of their blackberry.

3. I tried doing the master cleanse for a day and was ready to seriously maim someone by noon. Fellas, if you’re ever dealing with a bitchy woman it’s probably not because of pms but due to low blood sugar. Now I know why the Olsen twins never smile in photos!

4. So I was reading Time magazines “Single people should just get it over with and kill themselves” issue. One of the articles is about the health benefits of being married. Apparently single people have health issues because we don’t have anyone yelling at our fat ass to stop eating ramen. Um, hello, I do no eat ramen for dinner thank you very much. I have wraps and ferrero rochers! Geesh, if you’re going to promote stereotypes about single people you don’t have to make us sound so…pedestrian.

5. One of the articles talked about the science of love and the whole pheromones thing and how women subconsciously select their primary care provider based on his scent and can discern if their genes will get along in the champagne room. But the birth control pill may affect the way women evaluate their partner’s smell and cause them to make wrong partner choices. This explains why I was so dickmatized during my early twenties when I was on the pill and have no interest in hooking up with any of the guys I dated before the age of 25. Love ya like a sister!

6. The chocolate chip cookies at Subway are off-the-hook. Yum.

7. I ran into my hot neighbor this morning. This is how our conversation ensued:

Neighbor: Good morning.
Me: Hummana Hummana.

He makes me feel like I’m sixteen. I think it’s because he IS sixteen. Ugh, just call me Mary Kay Letorneau.

8. Happy Friday!

*texticular cancer was first coined by my friend Elissa, an expert in the field of urban anthropology.

It’s amazing what three days of drinking can do to your body. Not only do I feel to’ up from tha flo up but I have these huge bruises on my legs. I asked Ursy where these bruises could have come from and she said, “Maybe it’s because you and that guy were body slamming eachother on Saturday.”

Oh, right, Remember the guy from Rue B? Well, apparently we started dancing in the middle of the bar–even though Rue B is a JAZZ BAR and the only area you could possibly dance in is this sliver of a space near the piano–and we kept knocking into eachother because that’s what happens when two intoxicated people try to dance in a space the size of a place mat.

Anyway, I ended up hanging out with him again on Tuesday. At first I was worried that he would not be as cute sober as he was when I was drunk but I walked into the bar, spotted him near the entrance and he was, indeed, quite steamy. Literally. My glasses fogged up as soon as I walked into the bar. It was a little embarrassing. Foggy glasses are the optometrical equivalent of red-wine-mouth.

So we had a couple of drinks and we got onto the subject of karaoke, because hello I’m Asian, and I asked him if he liked it and he said, “I love karaoke.”

OH.

MY.

GOD.

I HAVE TO MARRY YOU.

(Of course I did not say that out loud. I’m crazy not stupid.)

But every man has his flaws and the boy’s big flaw is that he’s twenty-five.

TWENTY FIVE.

Sure, I have the maturity level of a twelve year old boy but I can not date a twenty-five year old. It’s like I’m asking myself to get screwed over.Twenty-five is the prime age for hunting and gathering. Guys his age actually have the energy to go out to the Meatpacking district and look for ass. Guys my age stay at home and take a bunch of pharmaceuticals and play X-box.

But he’s so cute.

Fuck.

I know, I know. Shut it down.

On Wednesday, my ex-boyfriend was in town for a day so we met up for happy hour. Except happy hour turned into drinking until eleven and him having to call Amtrak to book a later train because he missed his first train. It was good to see him. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. Unfortunately, that place is currently occupied by heart burn.

On Friday, we all went karaoking for my friend Liz’s birthday. Liz is awesome. We met freshman year of college when a group of us decided to go this club called The Tunnel (you might remember it from the movie Kids) and my first impression of Liz was “That girl is wearing a furry ass coat.”

Seriously, her coat kinda looked like this:

Then my second impression was, “That is one funny bitch. I have to be friends with her.”

So there were like 50 people in this private karaoke room. My friend Vidya and I were trying to figure out our first song. “What about R. Kelly’s Ignition?” she asked. Well, I love R. Kelly but I’m not sure if a bunch of sober people would like R. Kelly. I suggested maybe something more neutral like Bon Jovi. White people love Bon Jovi.

The funny thing about karaoke is that one minute you’re just milling around and talking and then the next minute you’re humping the floor and singing You Oughta Know.

Karaoke…cheaper than therapy.

On Saturday, Dave and Ursy and I went out to Luca Bar for brunch and started talking about Don Cheadle and what a great actor he is and Dave goes, “How did Don Cheadle go from Mean Girls to Hotel Rwanda?”

“Um, Don Cheadle was not in Mean Girls. Tim Meadows was in Mean Girls.”
“Wait, Don Cheadle wasn’t in SNL? Or Ladies Man?”
“No, that’s Tim Meadows.”
“They’re not the same person?”
“Um…no.”

Mind you, my friend Dave is a brotha and he couldn’t even tell Don Cheadle and Tim Meadows apart. Could you imagine Tim Meadows doing Hotel Rwanda??? “Helloooo…I’m tha ladies man. Is there a problem with the Tutsis?” Um, yeah, let’s give a NAACP image award to Tim Meadows for Most Versatile Actor.

Okay, I have to go work off my wine and cheese belly now. Peace.

Do you guys ever wake up in the morning, open your eyes, recall the details from the previous night, and NOT slap your forehead in embarrassment?

DON’T YOU JUST LOVE WHEN THAT HAPPENS???

So last night I went out to Rue B with Ursy, Vidya, and some other peeps. I love Rue B because they have an awesome bartender, delicious cocktails, and live jazz. You feel like you’re in old school New York. And then when the live jazz ends they play Wutang Clan. It’s like they are reading my mind!!!

And it was just so nice to sit at the bar and indulge in a cocktail because I was having one of those weeks when I was feeling fat and unattractive and looking at my phone and thinking “Is this thing on??” because no one had called my lame ass in seven days. Then all of a sudden I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around and it is like in the movies when you are turning in slow mo and there is a bright light shining on the person next to you and the chorus sings AHHHHHHHHHHHH and the person sitting next to you turns out to be A FUCKING HOT GUY.

And the guy says:

“So what’s your story?”‘
“Huh?”
“You know, what’s your story?”
“Um…I’m drinking a pomegranate martini?”

(Yeah, the gods governing over my love life neglected to give me a script during their random act of benevolence.)

So we introduce ourselves.

His name is Peter. Yes, he’s a white a boy. And he’ tall. And funny. And likes to dance.

JIGGA WHAT?

In what weird, parallel universe do I meet a tall, smart, cute white boy who likes to do the Harlem shake???

So we talk. And after consuming 5 pomegranate martinis, a margarita, and a Stella I decide that I really want smoochies. Except he’s talking about like antebellum politics in the South and I’m wondering when he will just stop talking and kiss me and I give him this look that says, “You better stop talking and kiss me now because I am drunk and horny and I might pass out soon.”

But he’s still talking.

So I literally lean into his face.

And then we kiss.

Then we kiss some more.

And then we are THAT COUPLE just making out the bar and you wince and mutter “Ugh just get a room already,”

Then he gets up for a second and Vidya comes over to get the low down. and is like…

“He’s so cute! Don’t mess it up!”
“I’m not gonna mess it up!” .
“Okay, just don’t do what you always do.”
“What do I always do?”
“Be stank.”

Um, yeah, when I hang out with a guy I am either a total bitch or I get too nervous and drink too much…and pass out.

So he comes back and we exchange the digits. And he says he has to go home because he’s tired and says, “You should come outside and say bye and kiss me some more.”

LOL.

So I just end the night with more smoochies.

Swoon.

Last night was the kind of night that just makes you fall in love with New York. The martini on one side. A hot guy on the other. Jazz musicians playing in the background. And you’re just that right amount of drunk when you are feeling brazen and flirty and not, you know, slurring your words and telling him you have a blog.

Oh, yeah, thank god I didn’t tell him I have a blog.

I figure I should not let people know I am crazy…right away.

But even if I never him see again–which is highly probable because this is New York and I am sure he has used the “what’s your story” line on numerous women in Manhattan–it’s just a nice feeling to know that sometimes random fun things can happen in your life.

And it’s also nice to know that I can still work it. Holla!

It was even the worth the hangover this morning.

So,dear readers, I hope you will stick around to hear more of those fun stories.

Same Jinius time. Same Jinius place.

If you’re a non Asian man and have been unsuccessful in dating an Asian woman, you may want to read this list and see if it’s because you have any of these traits… which is highly probable.

1. You’re a creepy white guy.
How do you know if you’re a creepy white guy? Please read on…

2. You post an ad on Craigslist looking for an Asian woman and claim it’s because you admire interracial families when the truth is you just want to poke that sweet lotus blossom. And you also post a picture of yourself kneeling down to smell the roses. Who? Does? That? Oh, right…this guy:

3. You are a Buddhist.
You read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in college and idolized MCA from the Beastie Boys so you decide to become a Buddhist. Ummkay, my grandparents were Buddhists and went to temple all the time and looked down on anything that was considered fun and basically made my mother’s life miserable. So unless you’re ready to give up alcohol and presents around the holidays, how’s bout we leave Buddhism to the real Buddhists…old Asian people.

4. You only like women who invert their Ls and Rs.

5. You know more about Asian culture than the average Asian.
Your encyclopedic knowledge of Asian culture just makes me look bad and makes me wonder why you care so much. Oh, right…BECAUSE YOU’RE A CREEPY WHITE GUY.

6. You own a silk robe…with Asian characters on the back…and a picture of a dragon…that you got at Pearl River Mart.

7. You list “noh theater” and “celadon pottery” under your list of interests on your social networking profile.
Why don’t you just list “yellow fever” and “bukake” while you’re at it?

8.You own the book How to Attract Asian Women.

9. You can actually tell the difference between Korean, Chinese, and Japanese women.
Um, I’m Asian and I can’t even tell the difference!!!

10. You’re enrolled in an Asian language class and the other students consist of creepy white guys and the token black guy with an Asian fetish.

11. You watched Rush Hour 3.

12. You can’t remember the last time you hungout with white people.

13. You listen to Moby.
I guess that does not really have anything to do with ethnic dating preferences. But it’s just creepy overall.

14. You actually tell people you have an Asian fetish

15.You googled How to Attract an Asian Woman and found this blog. You’re welcome.

I’m not saying having an Asian fetish is bad. Hell, with the lifting of anti-miscegenation laws we should date whoever we want. And who says other people don’t have fetishes? I totally have a fetish for tall, funny, white dudes with large bank accounts hearts! But if you’re trying to attract someone, whether they are Asian or white or black, it generally helps to not be so creepy. So by avoiding this list of deterrents you should be well on your way to un-creepiness. Good Ruck.

So I rescinded my rule about not going to happy hour during the week.

That’s because Dave suggested we meet for happy hour. And happy hour with Dave is a guaranteed fun time. If by fun you mean puking your brains out the next day. But I digress.

Dave and I have been friends since college and now we live a mere ten blocks away from eachother. He is the one friend I could call in the middle of the night and confess that I was scared of the zombie apocalpyse and he’d either answer “Okay I’ll come over” or “Grow the fuck up, Ji.”

So we meet for happy hour at Blue Owl. Which is awesome. They have happy hour until midnight. And we have our usual talk about dating and relationships and what not. Dave always gives me good advice about dating. Advice that I never follow. And he also says shit like, “Well, he doesn’t deserve you, Ji” and I actually believe him when he says that because for some reason you believe those words when a guy friend tells you that than a girlfriend because guy friends are more economical in their compliments.

And he tells me about this girl he’s been seeing.

And I’m prepared to hate her.

I assume that she’s hideous and boring and annoying.

But then she shows up.

And the bitch is cute.

And not only is she cute but she is unbelievably nice. The first thing she says to me is, “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you!”

Fuck.

I begin to like her. And then we start talking as if Dave isn’t even there.

Then she goes on to remind me that we once met at a party. Really? I ask. I don’t remember. Then she tells me I don’t remember because I was too busy talking to another guy and she says, ‘I thought you were much cuter than him.”

Damn, and the bitch speaks the truth!

So I tell them that I’m tired and ready to go home. I figure that a good cock enabler lets their friend hang out with his woman. I don’t need to be the third wheel. I’d rather go home and catch a re-run of Gossip Girl. Really! Sniff.

And now I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. Like I’ve lost another friend to the relationship dungeon. But more important, I’ve lost a happy hour buddy.

I am the type of person that paid money to watch Hitch in the theater. And not only did I watch it in the theater ON A FRIDAY NIGHT but I still watch it everytime it is on TBS and I still get teary eyed in that scene when Eva Mendez is watching Jerry Maguire and crying hysterically as she squirts a bottle of whip cream into her mouth.

My gyno tells me I have too much estrogen.

But my favorite part about Hitch is Kevin James’s character. He is the character that I most closely identify with. Yes, the pudgy, bespectacled, socially awkward guy who drops mustard on his crotch and likes to dance to Usher. So subtract about two hundred pounds and add “drinks too much when nervous”, “makes offensive comments at holiday dinners” and “passes out at inopportune moments” and…that’s me!

And damn Hollywood for making you believe that the flawed character will get the girl because she likes you for who you are. Barf!

I was thinking about this because in real life, it never seems like “being yourself” gets you anywhere. The line that guys give me right before they’re about to tell me that they’re getting back together with their boring yet mentally stable ex girlfriend is “Ji, I think you’re alot of fun, but…”

And in my head I’m saying, “No, wait! There’s more to me to being fun! I can be NOT fun! Really!”

And being the “fun girl” was always just this albatross hanging around my neck, strangling my chances of dating happiness.I was always the “in between” girl. The girl that the guy has his fun with before he gets over his commitment issues and settles down with his ex.

And I was always jealous that I would never be that kind of girl. The kind of girl who would never go out with a run in her stocking.  The kind of girl who would never leave the house with clothes she picked off the floor because she was running late and they were the only clothes that smelled okay. The kind of girl who would never make an std joke at Thanksgiving dinner. The kind of girl who would never set pasta on fire. The kind of girl who would never watch an entire season of Crank Yankers on a Saturday night.

What do those kind of girls watch anyway? Law and Order??

And because of this, every once in a while, I think, “Well, maybe instead of std jokes I should just talk about…sailing….or junk bonds! Or real estate. Boring people are always talking about real estate!!!

But then last night I was having dinner with my friend Brian and he was telling me about the movie Waitress and the tragic story about how the writer/director of the movie was gruesomely murdered in her apartment right before the movie was released. And the movie is now out on video and they have a special section at the end where the cast talks about their favorite memories of her and the very last segment is one of the last interviews with the writer and she says something like “And remember the most important thing guys: Just have fun.”

And then that reminded me of one of my favorite quotes by Brendan Gill, an old school New Yorker writer who said:

…not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the argument that life is serious, though it is often hard and sometimes terrible.  And saying that, I am prompted to add what follows out of it.  That since everything ends badly for us in the inevitable catastrophe of death, it seems obvious that the first rule of life is to have a good time; and that the second rule of life is to hurt as few people as possible in the course of doing so.  There is no third rule.”

So I guess, dear readers, this is my circuitous way of saying:

1. Be yourself
2. Have fun
3. Be nice to people
4. Sub-par romantic comedies are good for soothing the soul on Saturday nights

Happy Monday.

So I get an email from a good guy friend of mine and it starts off “There is something that has been bothering me for some time…”–and I instantly think Oh shit I did something to offend him!–then I continue reading and he writes:

I think it should be addressed in your blog: Anonymous farting in loud clubs/bars. I have fallen victim to this three times in the last month and a half. Each time it took place while I was talking to a girl. I’m not sure if this is some new, diabolical cock block technique recently developed by the haters, or if this is something that girls think they can get away with. When in a conversation with a girl, the owness of any sudden malodor is, by default, placed on the nearest guy present (i.e. me, the game spitter). How can I sidestep the funk when it’s surrounding me? So far my tactic has been to ignore it entirely, as not to embarrass the girl, in the event that she is the phantom farter. But it’s not like she doesn’t smell it. So if she didn’t do it, then she probably thinks it’s me. But again, I feel compelled to remain silent, deferring to the childhood adage: “He who first smelt it dealt it”. What’s a playa to do?

In other news: I recently gave up on relationships. Santa Claus brought me an Xbox360 before I could procure myself a cute, smart, fun, funny, fashionable, and faithful nymphomaniac.

Okay, as for the first part of the email, yes, people pass gas in public places e.g. bars and clubs because those places are loud and they think no one can hear them even though we can all smell them. I’d say your best bet is to make a joke of it. Both people win in the scenario. If the girl is the offender then she knows you’re not a total jerk and can poke fun at these, um, fleeting moments. And if the girl isn’t the offender then she knows you didn’t do it or at least should be cool enough to let you pretend that you didn’t do it when we all know you probably did. ha!

As for the second part of your email, um, looks like the only box you’ll be playing with is electronic.

Any other questions? Concerns? Please send them over to thejinius at gmail dot com. I will answer them after drinking a half bottle of wine.

I’m now a member of the Blogher network and listed under the “sex and relationship blogs” so I guess that means I have to start addressing the sex part of sex and relationships. Er, I’m not sure if I will be adding any anecdotal pieces since the last thing I need is for my parents to find this blog and read my stance on the reverse cow girl (ed note: wait until you’re in a relationship).

But I was doing some arduous research on the interweb this morning–see how I toil for you, dear readers!– and found some interesting blog posts on Jezebel.com about p–n’s influence on sex.

Oh, and in an effort to curb spam I am not spelling out the word for p–n. I think you readers are smart enough to read between the dashes!

One post was about how p–n was ruining sex by making guys want to do nasty things that just demoralize you and the other argued that p–n allows women to determine what makes them feel comfortable and offers them a chance to be adventurous and experimental.

I have to say that from my conversations with other girlfriends that many women complain that dudes derive too much of their sexual techniques from p–n. That sometimes women feel like the dude doesn’t even realize that’s he’s actually fucking a human being and sometimes you feel like waving a flare at the guy like that scene in Jurassic Park when Jeff Goldblum is trying to get the attention of a dinosaur and yell, “Hey! I’m over here!”

I also think that women inculcate the belief that if men are using sexual techniques from p–n then it must be dirty and therefore he thinks you are dirty. Like that scene in Knocked Up when Ben and Alison are doing it doggystyle and she feels offended because she thinks he’s fucking her as if she were a dog and Ben argues, “It’s doggy style! It’s a STYLE!”

In both blog posts, readers felt most heated about, um, how should I phrase this…facials?? And how some guys do this after the first date without even asking. In the words of Stephanie Tanner, “How rude!” I mean, that must sting! And don’t you know you are messing up her hair? What if women squirted you in the eye with a mixture elmers glue and lemon juice? Now you know how it feels!!

But, you know, none of this stuff is really about the p–n. Sure there’s a definite correlation between p–n and bedroom behavior but the most important thing is how comfortable you feel with your partner and whether that’s after the first date or the first year, that’s up to you. So go for the facials if you feel like it. And just because he’s doing it to you doggy style doesn’t mean he thinks you are a dog. Unless he’s barking or some shit then that is just weird and I’m sorry!

But I have to say the number one complaint that I hear from girls is the “jack hammer” move that guys do. Remember that episode from Sex and the City (please don’t shoot me for the satc references!) when Carrie sleeps with one of the groomsmen from Charlotte’s wedding and he basically screws her like a jackhammer and the next day she can barely walk or even straighten her back so she avoids the guy at the wedding and he confronts her with “And to think– I made love to you.”

Um, yea, guys, don’t do that…unless you are having sex with a woman made out of air.

You’re welcome.

To read the anti p–n post click here.

To read the pro p–n post click here.

It was the day before Thanksgiving.

My friends and I gathered for a dinner of tapas at this Spanish restaurant in the East Village. The table was overflowing with sangria, rioja, and even cigarettes. The owners were feeling generous and let us smoke at the table. Because it’s the holidays and because we have just injected ourselves with gallons of sugary red wine concoctions, we are feeling buoyant and boisterous.

And lustful.

We go to two more bars afterwards. After pounding a pint of some German beer, I feel a warm buzz encroaching on my entire body–a signal that I should go to bed. But someone then invites everyone to their apartment and we all agree to meet over there for more drinking.

He offers to walk me there.

Somehow we manage to be the first people to arrive at the friend’s apartment building. As we wait for the others to show up, I try to let the cold wind slap some sobriety into me.

I don’t know how it happened exactly.

But out of the corner of my eye I see him lean in closer to me.
He is a tall fellow.
Is he going to fall on me?
“Come here,” he says.
What?
Then he kisses me.
There we are, with both hands inside our coat pockets, with winter’s tendrils tickling our faces, and he sneaks me the sweetest, gentlest kiss ever.

And I have to puke.

I tell him I have to go home. I invite him over. My gut instincts are literally telling me to go home and use the bathroom and for some reason I see that as an opportunity to invite this boy–who I don’t know very well!–over to my apartment for a night of seduction.

Genius.

So we walk back to my apartment and as soon as we walk in I realize that I can’t control the room from spinning like a centrifuge.
I tell him he has to leave.
He gives me this confused look.
Then I burp.
And he laughs.
Had I been sober I would have said something like, “Excuse me” or “I’m sorry” but instead I just wave him goodbye and run to the bathroom.

The gods governing my love life must have groaned that evening. They actually throw me a bone and I ruin a romantic moment by having issues with my digestive system.

But after that incident, he actually asked me out to dinner. And we ended up going out a few times.

So I guess the lesson is that if you do stupid shit when you are drunk, sometimes the guy won’t care (or remember) because he was drunk too.

Or maybe the gods governing over your love life will toss you a “get out of jail free” card once in a while.