I’m a Jinius

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.

Happy Friday, dear readers! You must be counting down the hours until your impending happy hour.

Lushes.

You’re my kind of reader.

And while you are deciding on your game plan for this evening and your exit strategy from your one night stand tomorrow morning (beer goggles!), I am writing to you from a dark and depressing dungeon also known as my cubicle. I’m also trying to blog and work at the same time whilst also eating turkey meat loaf.

Life doesn’t get any better. Oh, it does? Then shoot me.

Let’s see, what’s been going since we’ve last…blogged? Oh, yes, the sobriety thing. I will have you know that I have not touched a drop of alcohol since Sunday (I guess anything is possible). I know it’s only been like five days but already my skin looks clearer, my pants seem looser, and my outlook on life is just brighter! What is going on??? What is this hex that sobriety has cast upon me??? Shut! It! Down!

I also finished a draft of the first act of my play.When I first read through it, I was laughing out loud to myself (Who laughs at their own jokes like a crazy person? Um, yeah, me) and I deemed it the best thing since pizza bagels. Then I re-read it the next day and thought it was the biggest piece of turd to enter my apartment. What happens in those twenty fours that manages to turn your piece of art into a piece of shit? I don’t know. I think staring at your computer screen into the wee hours manages to give you delusions of grandeur. Drats. Back to the drawing board.

Work has been…whatever. If I could list every single euphemism for getting screwed in the ass I would list them here.

But I am so excited because in a few hours (hopefully!) I will be on a train to see my friends in Boston! I will be seeing Binne and Ilana, the OG roommates. Holler!

I will try to be a good girl.

Ha!

Note to self: Excessive coffee drinking and multi tasking may lead to an inchoate blog post.

I saw Madeleine Albright speak at the 92nd Street Y the other day and my crush on her escalated even more. Not only was she the first female secretary of state and the first American official to meet with a certain autocratic ruler of a highly isolated country, but girlfriend can leg press 400 pounds.

She also has a razor sharp wit. She told us this story about how she was invited to the White House for a dinner with former Secretaries of State and Defense, “Rarely have I ever felt so young.” and when she had a moment to speak with President Bush she said, ” ‘Mr. President, I don’t know why you act as if you invented democracy when you know I did.”

Luckily, he laughed at her joke.

After the lecture, I waited thirty minutes for her to sign my book. The ushers said that we could have her personalize the message or just get her signature. What the hell was I going to do with a book that was dedicated to me? Isn’t that lame? I decided to just get her signature. Everyone else ahead of me got their books personalized. Oh, well.

While I felt inspired and awed during the lecture, I couldn’t help but feel a little deflated afterward. I mean, I’m sure Madeleine Albright was not the type of woman that ever passed out in bed after a night of drinking. And I chided myself for not having the discipline to moderate my party habits and do something more with my professional life. Would I have achieved more success if it were not for my propensity to do soju shots and then curl up in fetal position on my bathroom floor?

Then yesterday I went to yoga class and ran into this girl I know. I hardly recognized her. She seemed so mellow, glowing from the inside out. “I haven’t had alcohol in 4 months,” she explained.

FOUR MONTHS.

Wow. No matter how many times I puke on the sidewalk or pass out at home, I still continue to drink alcohol like an indefatigable frat boy. But the minute I see that someone has better skin and a leaner body from not drinking alcohol, I want to jump on the wagon.

Vanity is a great motivator.

So, yeah, I’m thinking of curtailing the drinking.

Will you still love me when I am sober?

And boring?

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.

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.

New York City is all about relationships. But usually of the non-romantic variety. If you live in a neighborhood long enough, you develop a pretty intimate rapport with the people at your local drycleaners, nail salon, and even deli. Yes, I knew I had a close relationship with my deli guy when I walked in on a weekday and he said to me, “Wow, you’re sober today.”

I need to move.

These are the people that I interact with on a regular basis. These people shape my life, make my day, and help me realize that capitalism and its consequences of social stratification are indeed alive and well in New York City.

The Bus Dispatcher: He’s the guy that stands on the street corner, rain or shine, and makes sure you get on the bus and that the buses leave on time. I have a pretty intimate relationship with my bus dispatcher because he used to say things like “yowza” when I’d get on the bus. I guess some people would take that as a compliment…IF WE LIVED IN THE FIFTIES. So I filed a complaint to MTA. Um, yeah, and he doesn’t say that to me anymore and now he holds the bus for me when he sees me running across the street. See? Only in New York can you go from harassor/harassee to bus friends.

The Bus Driver: I’ve been riding the same bus line for about five years now so I’ve gotten to know most of the regular drivers. This comes in handy when I realize my metro card doesn’t have any money left and ask the driver, “Can I just pay extra next time?” Then he nods his head and gives me a look that says, “Bitch is too cheap to buy an unlimited card.”

The Deli Guy: I usually come here after work and get my dinner for the evening. See, in the suburbs, single women eat tv dinners. In Manhattan, single women eat wraps. Of if you’re me, you eat a wrap and a box of ferrero rochers. Shit is good! Anyway, my deli guy calls me “mami” and I call him Erik Estrada because he’s tan and from the Southern Hemisphere. Okay, I don’t call him Erik Estrada. Not to his face at least. I once made the mistake of telling him I was from Miami and now he likes to speak Spanish to me when I come in which I just find incredibly frustrating because at that point in the day I am just too tired to speak let alone speak three words of a language I can barely remember. Yeah, I am such an asshole. Erik Estrada is probably just trying to find a moment of entertainment in the bleakness of his 20 hour shift and I am too lazy to humor him and say “gracias”. Immigrant labor is so depressing.

The Bagel Delivery Guy: I usually call my bagel place on Sundays, when I am broke and can only afford like a bagel with butter and a coke. My bagel delivery guy answers the phone and he sounds like he has cerebral palsy but when he shows up to my door he is like this hot Asian hipster sporting Vans. I always forget he is hot and end up greeting him at the door in an oversized shirt with some kind of food stain. Note to self: When greeting the Bagel Delivery Guy at the door, make sure to wear pants.

The Neighbors: I have actually never seen the people that live upstairs but I HEAR them all the time. Especially at night. I don’t know how many people actually live there but they sound like there are about ten of them. I call one of them American Idol. He is always singing. Especially in the shower. He must take like ten showers during the course of one night because I can hear the water running and him singing some Kelly Clarkson song. Oh my goodness, when Dream Girls came out he would not stop singing “And…I…am…TELLING YOUUUUUUUU…”

I once had to take a broom and bang it on the ceiling because he was singing in the middle of the night and I couldn’t fall asleep. Yes, I am 28 going on 60.

And then there’s another woman in that apartment who I call “Big Mama’s House” because I can hear her laughing in the middle of the night like she’s a character in a Martin Lawrence movie. I don’t know what the hell can be so funny at one in the morning on a Monday night but Big Mama’s House sure can find something to cackle about. Her laugh travels through the pipes and right into my ear drums.

Between American Idol singing in the shower and Big Mama’s House laughing about nothing, sometimes I find it very hard to sleep at night.

But sometimes, especially when my roommate is out of town, I can’t fall asleep because I can’t stop thinking about the zombies that are going to attack me from under my bed, so I try to think about all the people in my neighborhood who are probably still up because they have to work the late shift in order to make money for their remittances to Mexico so that their children can get vaccinated and they can afford cable television and feed all their relatives and cattle. And I feel better knowing that they are still out there. And I even find comfort in American Idol’s late night rendition of Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak my heart”.

In New York, you are never really alone. Sometimes it is nice knowing that there will always be people around you.

Unless they are all zombies…in which case I am screwed.

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.

So I wasn’t going to make any New Years resolutions because I think resolutions are for people who actually want to improve their lives and themselves but I think I will incorporate one very important resolution for the sake of my health and my overall well being:

Eat dinner

Bad things happen when I drink on an empty stomach. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while then you must be familiar with this axiom. I mean I’m only 5′1 so when I drink on an empty stomach the alcohol bypasses my stomach and goes straight to my brain. And yet I never seem to learn my lesson.

Like on New Years Eve.

New Years Eve is the one holiday where everyone is allowed to get as fucked up as possible so that they can lose all ability to see or think straight, thus enabling them to makeout with someone by midnight. I remember on one particular New Years my friend Fab and I decided that we were going to keep it really low key and not even dress up so we went to this loft party wearing shirts that said “BOYS ARE STUPID THROW ROCKS AT THEM.” And those shirts, of course, invited alot of responses from people who should have rocks thrown at them. And by midnight Fab and I are both making out with these Albanians except I don’t know the guy is Albanian and think he is French and I keep shouting “Saucisson Saucisson!” because that’s what I do around French people and the guy turns to Fab and says, “Does your friend know I’m not French?” And then I tried to type his number into my phone and I was too drunk to type in digits so I gave up in frustration.

Where was I going with this story? Oh, right,eat dinner before going out or you shall makeout with strange foreign men with indiscernible accents.

And then last night all I had was a piece of olive bread and like ten or twenty glasses of champagne. And today I’m playing my favorite game called “Did I say that?” where I run conversations from the night before and try to remember if I could have said something particularly offensive. I don’t think I said anything offensive last night. I may have tried to grab people’s asses but that’s not really offensive, that’s just flattery.

Oh and I shared a cab home with my friend and I guess I must have been pretty, um, what’s the word…fucked up? Because he had to get out of the cab and walk me to my apartment. And I woke up this morning without any clothes on and in a pool of my own drool. So if he hadn’t walked me home I would have just taken my clothes off and fallen asleep on the sidewalk. Happy New Year!

I was lamenting to my roommate about how embarrassed i was that I needed to be escorted to my own apartment and she said, “Look if if your friends can’t handle you at your most real then they can’t handle you at all.”

Um, so I guess my most authentic self is someone who can’t formulate sentences and find her apartment.

So this year I will try to follow my resolution of eating dinner before going out so that I don’t, you know, pass out in an alley. Oh, and to stop eating foot long subs so that my ass can stop expanding.

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.