I’m a Jinius

I met a cute boy with a beard last night. And I’m pretty sure he’s over 21. Although the beard could be misleading. Whoops!

So I go to The Room to meet up with my friend Erica from Miami.

Erica and I were the geek girls in high school but she wasn’t really geeky because even at the age of fifteen people would come up to her and tell her she looked like Kate Winslet. She is also one of my sweetest friends. The type of friend that would drive thirty minutes just to pick my lame ass up and then go hangout at Borders because where else do you hangout at fifteen? Anyway, she is still as sweet and beautiful as ever because she shows up to the bar with a bag of brownies from Chelsea Market!

Dear Future Boyfriend: If you want to know the swiftest way to my heart then bring me baked goods from Chelsea Market. Oh, and a burger from Shake Shack. With fries. Can you tell I’m hungover?

So Erica and I go outside to smoke a clove and as we walk back in I notice this cute boy coming in behind us. Hummana. Hummana.

The boy is sitting to my right at the bar and he is chatting with his friend. But I can’t tell if he’s straight or gay because he is drinking rose. I don’t know how to do the little accent mark on this computer but I don’t know if you caught the observation that he is drinking rosaaaay.

So Erica and I are chatting and I’m mulling over the boy’s sexual orientation when he turns to me and asks me a question.

Scene:

Boy: Have you ever had a Snickles?

Me: What is that?

Boy: It’s kinda like a snickers but instead of chocolate it’s crack cocaine covered in crushed ecstasy pills.

Me: Are you drinking Rosaaaay?

Boy: I’m straight. Really.

So I chat with the boy and his friend and then I turn to talk to Erica about god knows what you talk about after like ten belgian beers. The boy taps me on the back and asks what’s my name. I tell him. He tells me his name and it it SUCH a white boy name. And I’m only over generalizing because I have never ever met a minority with this name. Here’s a hint: It rhymes with Burt.

Erica leaves and I end up chatting at the bar with the boy and his friend. I think at some point I keep muttering No Homo. I think I am muttering this because the boy is drinking rosaaaaay.

And then I did my classic Jinius move where I order a drink, take two sips, then leave without saying goodbye.

I get home and I text: Sorry had to go. Lets party. If this is your real number?

Dear readers, I am pretty sure you are intelligent. Afterall, you read this blog. A blog that only requires a third grade reading level and if it were in book form it would be made of cloth and placed in cribs.

But can you read this text and tell me what the hell that means because I have no freaking clue!!!!!!

So the boy miraculously understands my text and replies: I would love to party with you again. Text me later this week babe. You were alot of fun.

Cute, right?

But do I leave it at that? Do I allow my evening to end on a cute, positive note????

Oh, nooooo. I just have to be funny. Like I’m Tina Fucking Fey. I try to respond with something like “Oh, yeah, lets drink rosaaaay” because that is my humor at 2 in the morning. But because it is 2 in the morning and I have no motor skills, I end up dialing his number and calling him.

So the boy probably has like a hundred missed calls from me. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Maybe less than a hundred.

Whatevs. If he wants to tap this ass then he’s gonna have to deal with my lack of texting skills and my propensity to drunk dial at two in the morning.

On another note, I’ve been listening to alot of John Legend and he is freaking awesome. If you get past that horribly cheesy song “Ordinary People”, the rest of the album is hot. It’s the kind of album that helps you get your groove back. Only to lose it at the end of the night.

Drats.

Her refrigerator has seen better days.

A bleak landscape of dannon lites, diet cokes, and whole wheat toast greet her every morning like corpses of a diet revolution. Today she will treat herself to a key lime yogurt. This is because yesterday she had the coconut creme pie flavor and she was disappointed to discover it did not taste like coconut creme pie. She closes the refrigerator door and scans the neon colored schedule taped to her wall. Today she will do Yoga Sculpt. It is her favorite class. She enjoys classes that allow her to meditate and gather her thoughts while also pumping an 8 pound dumb bell over her head.

I’ve never talked to this woman.

But every time I go to the gym, I see her in the corner of the locker room preaching to the other gym devotees about her favorite classes. She’ll tell you the level of difficulty. The instructor’s personality. And even what kind of music they play.

She looks like she’s in her mid thirties, with a thin frame and dark colored hair that is so brittle it makes uncooked pasta look sensuous.

Her acolytes listen attentively. Then they disperse and run off to their jobs and families. Leaving her alone.

The gym is where New Yorkers perform public acts that should be done in the privacy of their bedroom. Wearing spandex. Sweating uncontrollably. Leaving clouds of body odor. Grunting while lifting weights. Performing Squat thrusts.

Of course, I am guilty of all these things.

On a good week, I’ll go to the gym three or four times. With this kind of frequency, I tend to see some of the same characters.

There’s the guy I call Silver Fox because he’s pretty goodlooking and has a head of gray hair. I still can’t tell if he’s gay or straight because I don’t think a straight man would perform leg lifts in public. There is something about a man being on all fours and lifting his foot up to the sky that manages to squash any ounce of heterosexuality.

Then there’s Cell Phone Girl. She garners this nickname because she’s on her cellphone when she’s on the treadmill, lifting free weights, on the machines, and even while doing sit-ups on the mat. I know cell phone girl seems like a pretty obvious nickname for this behavior but I’m not sure what else you would call her. Woman I Hope I Never Have the Unfortunate Chance of Talking To?

Then there are The Workout Buddies. They do their weight routines like synchronized swimmers and discuss their menu plans for the week. FOR THE ENTIRE GYM TO HEAR. These are the type of women that say “carbohydrate” as if they are saying “Osama Bin Laden”. They workout in such precision and go into such detail about their diets that the floor is dripping with their sweat and self loathing.

Despite their devotion, their bodies have not changed at all in the past year. Looks like someone has been sneaking in processed flour.

And finally there’s Gym Crush. He’s cute in that nerdy, I just started to exercise kind of way. We make eye contact all the time and just recently started smiling and saying hello to eachother. This was achieved after a full year. I can tell he’s single because guys in relationships don’t work out with such diligence. I see him staring at me when we are down in the weight room. At first I thought he was checking me out but now I am starting to think it is because I look like an air traffic controller when I am lifting weights. I could safely guide a Boeing Jet to my gym.

Maybe he is checking me out. But I know he’ll never ask me out. Because the gym is the kind of place where we acknowledge eachother’s existence but we also forget there are other people around.

We hog the last pair of five pound weights (Damn you! Whoever you are!) We do splits in the middle of the gym. We recount our diets. We run and sweat next to eachother. We look exactly the same despite the fact that we’d rather go to the gym regularly than a church.

In the end, we go home to an empty fridge.

Friday
I’m still on the poverty diet so I buy a bottle of Montepulciano to pre-game before going out. This particular bottle used to be 7 bucks but my liquor store jacked up the price to 9.99.

I wasn’t prepared for this extra cost so for dinner I abandon my plan to buy a slice of pizza and buy a pepperoni stick instead. The name does not leave much to the imagination. It’s basically fried dough stuffed with pepperoni and the size of–you guessed it– a stick.

I guess a smart person would have splurged on dinner and not on a bottle of wine but then how would you enjoy the rest of your Friday night?

Later on, my friend Sarah and I head to this bar Enid’s in Greenpoint for David R’s birthday.

David R is a friend of my friend Dave. They are both from Nashville. When the two of them get together, interesting things happen. And by interesting I mean one night they got really drunk and decided to smash all the light bulbs in Dave’s apartment building and Dave almost got evicted.

People from Nashville are fun to hangout with.

So Dave R currently works as a public school teacher in New Orleans. He was telling us what all the kids were saying these days. For instance, instead of eavesdropping they say ear hustlin’. They also say “no homo” after every sentence. They say it after the most benign things like “Oh, I watched Iron Man this weekend. No homo.”

I guess the phrase became really popular because Li’l Wayne says that all the time and for those of you who have been living under a rock or don’t listen to “that music”, Li’l Wayne is the reigning king of Hip Hop and kids in Louisiana follow his every word. Even homophobic ones!

Anyway, Enid’s was really fun and they have DJs who play really good music but since the place was populated by lumberjack looking dudes and girls with a BMI of 17, no one was really dancing. Not even to MJ!

So since I wasn’t dancing, I decided to keep drinking. Brooklyn Lagers were only $4 so I had, um, 20 bucks worth. (more…)

I never understood those aphorisms that encourage you to be a better person.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Take the high road. Be the bigger person.

The bigger person? Why would I want to be the bigger person when what I really want to do is BUST. SOME. SKULLS??? People seem to think that being the bigger person is the mark of a mature character but I think it’s a bit fraudulent. Because you never hear people say, “Oh, yes, I’m going to be the bigger person!!!!  I’m so happy I was the bigger person!”

No, they always say that begrudgingly and in a dejected tone that is usually accompanied by a sigh.  “Fiiiine (sigh) I guess I’ll be the bigger person.”

If you feel like acting immature why can’t you just be immature? If you feel like making fun of an ex’s poor bedroom skills on a public blog then why don’t you just go ahead?

Oh, because you’re taking the high road.

I prefer the more accessible road.

I’ve been thinking about this lately because it’s funny when you hear people concoct elaborate and creative ways to not offend people. If you don’t feel like attending a party you make some excuse about how you have to work overtime or you’re sick or your dog needs to be disciplined. Now that I’m older I’ve exhausted all my excuses so when people invite me to things and I don’t feel like going I just say “No.”

Do you wanna go running with me?
No.

Do you wanna go to this fundraiser and pay 100 dollars a ticket? It’s open bar.
Tempting. But no.

Do you wanna go see this live jazz band?
HAHAHAHAH. No.

Do you wanna watch the Sex and the City movie?
Um, I’m too busy trying to actually have sex in this city. No.

Do you wanna be my bridesmaid?
Oh, I’m so honored. No.

Um, yeah, I’m never dating again. Will explain more later. But at one point I texted my friend Ursy to save me. So I ditched the dude and met up with Ursy for six point beers and san loco tacos. She is a great Thursday nite date. Too bad she’s already spoken for.

Soooooo remember the random dude I met on Saturday? Um yeah, I barely remember either. Well, he texted me the other day and apparently we work in similar industries and his office is like TWO BLOCKS AWAY FROM MINE.

We’re meeting for drinks tonight.

But now I’m worried. I barely remember how I got home on Saturday night let alone what this dude looks like. Plus, the bar we were at was very dark and oh, did I mention that I inhaled an ENTIRE BOTTLE OF RED WINE before heading there???

I’m praying that he has a full set of teeth. At least I know he is over 21 since we’re meeting for drinks. Oh, god, please don’t tell me he just turned 21.

Is it too late to cancel?

I should have been my usual stank self on Saturday. This is how I get into trouble!!!! By being too nice to strangers!

Anyhoo, will be sure to let you know how it turns out. I may just have to drink a couple of glasses of wine before meeting him in order to quell my anxiety.

And if it goes poorly I can now add another neighborhood to my list of places I have to avoid for fear of running into formers. So far I have Williamsburg, Park Slope, the East Village, Bushwick–shoot, I should just move out of New York.

This is my second week of being impoverished thanks to my student loan debt (remind me not to send my kids to a liberal arts school) and I’ve been having a hard time buying inexpensive groceries that are somewhat healthy because the only cheap foods are canned goods and hydrox cookies. Is this why Mississippi–where some cities have a poverty rate that is twice the national average–suffers from the highest obesity level in the country? I can’t be obese now! I’m going to Fire Island in July! (Oh, don’t you just love the suffering of liberal arts school grads?)

At least having no money has helped moderate my drinking problem predilection. It’s amazing when you realize how much money you spend on alcohol. I won’t take my suits to the drycleaners because I don’t want to pay twenty bucks but I’ll freely throw down sixty bones for booze. It’s like I’m spending money just so I can lose control and impair my judgment and make myself susceptible to venereal diseases.

I’ve also been handwashing stuff like underwear and bras but today I broke down and finally did laundry because I really needed to wash my sheets and it’s not like this is the Oregon Trail. I can splurge five bucks for laundry.

So in order to save money I don’t go out at all during the week and I pretty much stay at home and watch reality shows instead of, you know, living in reality.

Of course I watched the Top Chef Finale. Hello, do I not breathe? And I think I can speak on behalf of America and pretty much the rest of the world when I say how relieved I am that Lisa did not win. Oops, spoiler. My bad. I love that Adam Platt over on NYmag calls her The Gorgon. I didn’t know what that was so I looked it up and learned that a gorgon is a mythological monster. Upon reading that, I laughed so hard I cried. Some blogs have contested that the editors made Lisa out to be the show’s villain but I don’t think the editors crafted that serial killer hair cut and Jack Palance glare.

I have to confess that I got teary-eyed when Stephanie talked about how happy she was that she won (oops, spoiler!) and that she made it through despite doubting herself and now she knows that this is what she’s meant to do in her life. It is nice to know that even talented people doubt their talent. Sometimes I wonder how much I could accomplish if I just got over this fear of failing. What’s the worst that could happen if I just tried? What if I just put together a book proposal and had it slammed by every agent in the city, thus confirming all my suspicions that I am indeed talentless and derivative? What’s so bad about that???

A friend of mine suggested that I turn some of the blogs posts into a book idea and I was like awww, thanks, but you have to say things like that because you’re my friend. But I’ve been reading other people’s personal essay books and I’m like, hmmm I could do that…if my attention span enabled me to write something longer than a blog post. One book that struck me was Sloane Crosly’s “I was told there’d be cake” (Clearly if I had written the book my title would’ve been “I was told there’d be open bar”). She has a very likable voice with a wry and self deprecating sense of humor but the entire time I kept thinking: this is just another white girl writing about life in New York.

But an important lesson I derived was that you don’t need exotic subject matter to be a compelling writer–you can stick to the mundane. And it’s all about your perspective. The most successful people out there are the ones who follow their own path. I don’t have to adopt the voice of Crosly or Sedaris or Burroughs. Especially since I’m not a white girl or a gay man. I just have to keep it real. Unfortunately, right now keeping it real involves eating pasta with poor man’s sauce (butter, olive oil, and salt).

I hope there’s an audience out there for an Asian female writer who doesn’t necessarily want to exploit their immigrant experience and would rather talk about boys, booze, and LOST while making random hip hop references. Hmmm, something tells me I need to throw in a random story about my strained relationship with my reticent yet loving Asian father. Every ethnic writer needs one of those in their portfolio.

Anyway, not having any money right now has been the best thing for me. I’m not drinking (as much) and I’m working out more and I’m using this solitary time to just figure shit out. Poverty is like going to church!

I guess the important thing is just to stay focused and work hard. Like Nas says: I know I can/be what I wanna be/if I work hard at it/I’ll be where I wanna be.

Hip hop tracks with kids singing the chorus are way inspirational.

In other news, there’s this story in Slate about an 85 year old woman and 92 year old man who met at a nursing home and started having sexual relations. Oh, and they also suffer from dementia. And when their kids found out they separated them. It’s like Romeo and Juliet only with adult diapers.

When I turn 80 and senile (lets face it I’m already on that path), I hope you, dear readers, will remember that under no circumstances are my kids allowed to cock block me. As god and the internet as my witnesses, I declare that I will get booty till the day I die.

We’ve all been in this position before.

You’re waiting in line for the bathroom at a bar or restaurant or coffee shop. (I’m sure you’ve been in line at a coffee shop because, hello, coffee!!!) So you’re the only person in line and waiting forever because the person in the stall is either reading Ulysses or removing the entire contents of his/her digestive system. The person finally exits the restroom and does not look you in the eye.

A harbinger of things to come.

You enter the bathroom and your olfactories are immediately arrested by a stench so unholy that you are convinced that the person before you must have murdered someone, eaten them, and then purged them from their bowels.

But you get over it and do your thing.

Then you leave the bathroom only to find that a line of people has actually gathered outside the restroom. Where were all these people before?? And now they will think that you are the perpetrator of this unholy grail!!

What do you do? Shrug? Grimace? Be like Shaggy and say, “It wasn’t me”?

Ladies and gentleman, I propose that we all employ the universal sign of “not my shit” so as not to be responsible for a sin we did not commit. As we exit the restroom, we should pull on our right ear to indicate to our fellow restroom victims that we did not, indeed, drop a deuce.

You’re welcome.

so one of the senior office members yelled at me this morning in front of everyone.

usually i’m pretty good at asserting myself and yelling back but i was caught off guard since it was early in the morning and i didn’t even have a chance to drink my morning coffee!

then i ran out of the office crying.

ugh.

but everyone at the office agrees with me that this guy is a huge fucktard so i’m trying not to take it personally.

i just think i’m tired of working in an office. my ideal office environment would be my living room. anyone out there hiring bloggers? hello? is this thing on???

1. Skip dinner. You don’t need to buy as many drinks when you’re drinking on an empty stomach!

2. Go to verlaine. Happy hour until ten.

3. Buy a Vietnamese Bloody Mary. Think of it as a liquid dinner.

4. Buy a lychee martini

5. Pass out