I Will Not Buy That Rucksack For World Peace Hey guys. I know, I haven't blogged for a while, though it's not for lack of Things Happening In My Life; I've just been consumed with a research project at work and prepping for our organization's biennial convention in Utah, where I've learned that the halved alcohol content of beer there might be more conducive to me getting a nice buzz and less conducive to me throwing up in a trash can on the street corner outside of a hookah lounge, like I did on my last birthday. Anyway, the point is -- I've been meaning to update and now I can't think of anything blog-worthy that's happened in the last month and a half, except that I still haven't finished a John Updike novel I started reading two months ago and I switched from liquid to powder foundation since it's been so humid out lately. Oh, and I had some story published in a magazine, which was nice, though it would've been even nicer had I gotten paid for it. Eh. Non-profits, what to do?Speaking of non-profits, I don't know what schmuck put me on a mailing list for Every Liberal Non-Profit And Fine Arts Group Known To Man, but I've recently been getting blasted with half a dozen pieces of mail a week from all sorts -- the World Wildlife Fund, Chicago Sinfonietta, Amnesty International, the Chicago Humanities Festival, Planned Parenthood, the Interfaith Alliance -- and I don't know how to make it stop. Moreover, they all want money. Money that a fellow liberal non-profiteer like me just doesn't have.So all I have to say is: Please stop sending me your liberal hippie mail. Unless you've forgotten, I too, work at a not-for-profit. My entire existence is a not-for-profit. And I appreciate the cute polar bear postcards you've enclosed in your plea for my money, Amnesty International, and it's nice that you got Leonardo DiCaprio to write me a letter, World Wildlife Fund, but I simply cannot afford to donate right now, because if you weren't already aware, I'm a recent college grad (still living with my parents) who gets paid in ham.So no, Sierra Club, I cannot buy a yearlong membership, even if it comes with that dandy little taupe rucksack that might actually give people the illusion that I go camping and "rough it" every so often. Let's face it, no one would actually believe that. Sex and the City of Fairytales Like every other 20-something-year-old woman who lives in a metropolitan area and owns a TV, I am continually, if subconsciously, attempting to recreate the glamorously upbeat yuppie lifestyle as portrayed on "Sex and the City." I wear four-inch patent leather pumps on the bus ride to work. I have candid conversations in public places with my girlfriends about sex. Even through college, before I had discovered the series, I often interspersed my usual hard news stories in the campus newspaper with snarky little dating columns that undoubtedly carried a bit of Carrie in them, even though I hadn't yet seen a single episode.Despite the fact that the show ended its run four years ago, the number of young women who continue to come across the series – myself included – via filtered broadcast reruns, a friend's DVD box set, or the ever-archival YouTube, fuels the neo-Manhattanite rapture as if it were still 1998. And the much-anticipated movie, to be released later this month, has done little to stem the frothy excitement that comes from talking about love, sex, and Louboutins. But as I've noticed several recent cycles of female college grads become increasingly disillusioned with the way life and love are turning out to be, I can't help but wonder: what kind of effect has "Sex and the City" had on the rising class of women? Has its fashionable whimsy and celebration of womanhood, in fact, ruined us somehow? Personally, there is no real reason why I should be able to identify with any of the four middle-class, near middle-aged women on the show. I am not single, I do not live in New York, and my allergy to alcohol goes quite beyond the usual "Asian glow" (drinking more than half a Cosmo would unquestionably send me to the ER seeking a stomach pump). I have never understood how the four women always had so much time to hang out at that coffee shop, or why Manhattan seemed to be devoid of any black people, save for Blair Underwood. And the only regular Asian American character, "the Korean," worked at the convenience store below Carrie's apartment and never actually appeared on-screen, let alone had a name. Yet I often found that their struggles were, and are, somehow similar to mine. Some of the questions they raised about love, sex, friendship, fashion – okay, they never really struggled with fashion – resonated, and continue to resonate, with me and an entire generation of women trying to figure ourselves out in a postfeminist society. Is independence really won by just learning how to "fuck like a man?" Is it ridiculous to still believe in head-over-heels-love? Is sexual freedom true freedom? If you find the seemingly perfect mate and still come out disappointed, does that mean you have to euthanize your idealism? Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte gave us four archetypical ways of dealing with these questions that neatly wrapped up by the end of the half hour, though for what it was worth, the answers were usually satisfying at the moment. For the most part, many of us thought that this revolutionary TV show genuinely changed the way we looked at ourselves and the way we lived as women in the new millennium. And, to some extent, it did. Carrie Bradshaw allowed us to partake in vintage romance again while simultaneously waving a flag of independence. She and her friends alternately possessed a retro-glam 1930s sense of romance and a refreshing sense of sexual self-ownership. But it also devolved back into the girl-meets-boy, girl-gets-saved-by-boy fairytale that we all grew up with: girl, no matter how feisty or strong, ultimately needs to be rescued by boy. Doesn't matter if she's making a solid middle-class income and lives on the Upper East Side, she's yet a damsel-in-distress under all those layers of Prada. Of course, as this recent Guardian article makes the case, you can be a feminist and love watching "Sex and the City." But how tightly does it ask us to keep holding on to the fairytale? The Guardian piece remarks that it is possible to yearn for a fulfilling relationship with a man and still be a fearless Samantha or Miranda, and indeed, all four women by the finale ended up with loving partners who often weren't the original versions Prince Charming they dreamed up. But take note: upon closer inspection, these perfectly imperfect "Sex and the City" men, bald and working-class and unexpected as they seemed, all continued to hold up the one-dimensional traits Prince Charming was always supposed to bear: unconditional love and perpetual understanding. The one fact most apologists for the series overlooked was how unrealistic these men were to the whims and outbursts of these women; no matter what, they were always there with a warm hug and affectionate words to pick up the pieces. This, more than any other part of the six-season HBO series – the outrageous outfits that no freelance writer could afford, the five-nights-a-week partying habits they never tired of, the bottomless martinis that never got anyone drunk, the rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side – was the most unebelievable aspect of the show. To think that a program devoted to exploring sex and love in never-before-seen ways would rest on the oldest cliche in the book of fairytales, Prince Charming (because even Big flew on a plane to Paris to save her), is what really has us set up to be devastated in real life."Where is he?" is often the resounding question I hear from women in my age bracket, though never voiced quite so directly. All the empowered single women out there are still just looking for their fairytale. Well guess what? Someone's going to be disappointed. The 2008 movie promises a few dramatic turns of events – abandoned weddings, cheating husbands, sexual boredom – that might hopefully add some dimension to these poor Patrick Dempsey-esque men. By now we should have realized that there is no Dr. McDreamy waiting to save our souls from drowning in our own neuroses. There is just the reality of the human condition and an outstanding invoice from Jean-Paul Gaultier.I understand that "Sex and the City" was not meant to be a catch-all for the struggles of being a modern woman. And for the sake of an entertaining story I will readily accept the fairytale of a fantasyland New York these women live in. But I cannot deal with the fact that in 2008 (or even 1998), we still let ourselves get suckered into wanting perfectly imperfect men to love us passionately for who we are and in spite of our flaws. If it happens, it certainly doesn't happen quite that easily."Sex and the City" was a revolutionary program in its day that raises some questions we have yet to answer. But there are still more questions we need to ask beyond the realm of romance, and questions within the realm of romance we could stand to frame with a little less fantasy and a little more reality. Otherwise, we're all just setting ourselves up for disappointment. Unaccustomed to gushing Keeping a brisk pace down Clark Street, I make my way over to Women and Children First, the wind rushing past me like a crowd charging in the opposite direction. The purple awning of the independent bookseller juts out of the building against a canvas of smudgy gray. Escaping a few droplets spattering down -- the beginning of another cheery spring in Chicago -- I dash inside the store and make a beeline for the front counter. "Is it out yet?" I ask breathlessly. A slender white girl behind the register looks at me quizzically, her dirty blond dreadlocks swaying slightly as she cocks her head to the side. "The new Jhumpa Lahiri book?" I ask again impatiently, leaning against the counter with both hands. "It’s supposed to come out today." "Over there." She points to a cardboard standee shelf by the entrance that I had completely overlooked on my way in. It’s here, it’s here! It’s finally here! I’d been waiting for the better part of a month to buy Lahiri’s latest novel. I grab a copy and head back to the register, and Dreadlocks confirms that yes, my shiny, hard, new copy of Unaccustomed Earth (possibly the only time I have ever shelled out for a hardcover) doubles as a ticket to attend a reading here next week with the Desi literati goddess herself. "Awesome. I can’t wait!" I gush, hugging the book. I am beside myself."Yeah?" Dreadlocks and the other bookseller behind the counter smile politely and swipe my card. There is a certain moment in the midst of a gush when you can tell the person you are gushing to is suddenly uncomfortable with the amount of enthusiasm oozing out of the whites of your eyes. These women have already begun humoring me with polite, thin-lipped smiles and a dismissive "Oh, really?" raise of the eyebrows.I try to redeem myself. After all, I am a serious Reader of Books, one who doesn’t just brandish The New Yorker casually on the bus on the way to work, but actually clicks through online fiction archives at home, searching for the perfect short story. I scrutinize word choice, breathe in lyrical descriptions, and typically scoff at anything written by an author who has not yet been dead for 60 years. I am to be taken seriously. "Oh, I’m just like, super excited. She’s one of my favorite writers, y’know?" Christ, I cannot stop myself. I am two steps away from showing up to the reading with an oversized posterboard that reads, "I love you Jhumpa!!" in metallic glitter glue. "Yeah. We’re all pretty excited," says Dreadlocks unconvincingly and hands me my receipt. I quietly lament that she does not share my enthusiasm. A few minutes later at the Starbucks down the street, where I have treated myself to a tall nonfat vanilla latte for the occasion, the barista drops the change in my palm and perkily asks what book I am reading in a way that makes me think he already knows. "The new Jhumpa Lahiri! I just got it!" I say, excited that someone else recognizes the book. "Oh, who is that?" My face falls and he quickly amends, "Oh... yeah. I think I’ve heard of her before." "You know, Interpreter of Maladies? The Namesake? She won a Pulitzer in 2000? This is her latest book!" I am holding up a line of grande mochas and lowfat macchiatos behind me, but this barista needs to be schooled in the Living Legends of Literature before I can move on to the pick-up counter. "Right, right. Yeah, that book looks... new," he says. I give up and wait for my latte. So no one else is excited that Jhumpa Lahiri has a new book out and that she’s coming to Chicago for an exclusive reading and book signing next week. Still, I am concerned about the other rabid Lahiri fans who will be in attendance. Will they, too, be wearing shirts with Lahiri’s face printed on the front? Will a neon or black posterboard stand out better? Should I be the one who coordinates the synchronized "We love Lahiri!" shouts from the audience? I think I need to buy more glitter glue. Eliot Spitzer as Beaker I love a good scandal. Especially one where you can look up the scandalized on MySpace (though, alas, "Kristen" cleaned up her MySpace page this morning, only hours after I got a chance to listen to her mediocre suburban hip hop and flip through her photo album), and The New York Times actually bothers to publish thinly veiled summaries of her MySpace page as breaking news.Poor Silda. My heart aches for her. She’s aged about 20 years in three days (see Jezebel.com for side-by-sides). That a man would leave a brilliant, Harvard-educated lawyer -- who left a top firm like Skadden to be a housewife -- for a 22-year old Jersey washup leaves me with so little faith in men. But that’s hardly the point of this post.The point is: Eliot Spitzer totally looks like a muppet.(Credit for the awesome pic goes to my DC counterpart WonderWong)The guv'nor clearly suffers from a classic case of muppet mouth. And foot in mouth. And probably a lot of other things he shouldn’t have been putting in his mouth in DC hotel rooms for $4,300 an hour. Tsk tsk. Oh, Beaker. Four pink inches of happiness... on each foot Hacking, I stepped on the escalator in my knee-length quilted down jacket and beaten up boots, and descended to the lower floor. I had spent the better part of a four-day conference in DC holed up in my hotel room, deliriously feverish and burning up from a bout with the flu, and now that I was back in Chicago, I wanted nothing more than to continue writhing in my own sweat in my own bed. But the call had come and I had to answer it. On my last day in DC, still furrowed underneath a -- what I was sure was a filthy, underwashed -- hotel comforter, with CNN droning on about the neverending primaries, my cell phone blinked with an unknown call. The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, but the message was all I needed to hear, "Ma'am, they're here." So with the temperature 30 degrees lower than from where I had just returned, and the wind twice as icy, I made the trek over to Belmont and Clark St. It wasn't a pleasant trip. Having thrown up on the plane with little to nourish my weakened system over the past couple of days, I felt weak just walking. But once I got there, I knew it was worth it. The escalator led me down into a large arena filled with rows and rows of little boxes for what looked like at least a mile. A poppy jazz tune jingled in the background. I walked up to the counter and gave a heavyset blonde woman my name. Signaling to an older man behind her, who meandered into the back and brought out a bright red box, she then asked, "Would you like to try them on first?"I wheezed my reply and fingered the pretty jewels inside, taking out the pair of patent pink four-inch Guess pumps. They were gorgeous. And so worth it. I had waited so long for them to go on sale (50% off!) and had haggled so much for the South Side store to transfer them up to the Clark St. location (5 days). But oh yeah, these shoes were worth almost coughing up a lung for. I love my new shoes. So, so much. Love them. Dirty politics WHY do I keep having weirdly inappropriate dreams about presidential candidates? It's disturbing. Somebody make it stop. Every so often this primary season I've woken up in that semi-hazy, comfortably sexy state of mind that you get when something happens in a dream that you know would only happen in a dream -- only to realize that I've been dreaming about one of the presidential candidates. You know, it really wasn't so bad with the first two. Edwards, Obama -- I can deal with having sexy dreams about them. A little bit blegh-inducing, but tolerable. Then suddenly, my dreams diverged from the road of charming, liberal presidential hopefuls; suddenly, things got scary. Things got Republican. NO. Not McCain. (Not Huckabee either.) It wasn't one of the candidates at all, actually. Ugh, I'm not even going to say. It's too embarrassing. The very memory of the dream makes me gag. The point is, this needs to STOP. Immediately. There are too few candidates left in the race for this to continue anywhere remotely pleasing. Chicago, LA, DC, NY, Kansas... which of these things is not like the other? Lots of traveling lately, what with co-facilitating a workshop down at UC-Riverside outside of LA two weekends ago, an Asian American student conference at Cornell up in Ithaca last weekend, and an upcoming Asian American student conference down in Kansas, of all places, at the end of March. Then there's the DC leadership conference next weekend, which means I'll at least get to hang out with other people from work , my Washington counterpart in particular -- another journalism grad with good taste in shoes who loves political gossip as much as I do. Weather's been a bitch. Snow, wind, snow. Welcome to Chicago in February. Why anyone chooses to live here between November and March, I'll never know. The ennui, the sluggish feeling of your body dragging your soul around, has embalmed me for most of winter, and I'm only just beginning to break free. I want to write, am starting to write. It's simply a matter of fully cracking this shell of despair and gloom that the snowy season always brings. Otherwise, life has been good, work has been good, the primary season has been one fascinating episode after another, keeping me tuned in and refreshing the page every 30 seconds on primary/caucus days. I love this country and its politics. It never gets boring. You can peruse every article, click every link, and still have plenty of reading material leftover. I love it. Now if only I could make this blog more of a page clicker. When hope is a four-letter word When did we all start losing hope? Ambition? A dream of something better? It's primary season, and one of our most promising candidates has fueled an entire campaign on hope. "Hope in the face of difficulty, hope in the face of uncertainty, the audacity of hope," said Obama in his 2004 DNC keynote, "In the end, that is God's greatest gift to us, the bedrock of this nation, a belief in things not seen, a belief that there are better days ahead." Many of us seem to believe in him, united in a collective hope for our nation. And that hope may very well be fulfilled soon enough. But what about hope for the individual? Economic hardship and the subsequent dearth of job opportunities has left a good chunk of recent college grads I know with a sort of ambling aimlessness that eventually settles into complacence. I know more than a handful of people from good schools who are perfectly content with becoming flight attendants, receptionists, bank tellers, or simply another member of your unemployed masses.It's almost as if hope has become a commodity spread so thin that we can't afford to spare ourselves a few crumbs apiece. When did we give up on wanting more out of life? Or rather, when did we give up on wanting to live passionately? There is a stark difference between taking an entry-level copy editing job to pay the bills and taking an entry-level copy editing job to pay the bills while you write the next great American novel. I've asked the question, "What do you really want to do?" only to hear, "This is good enough," too many times. We have stopped living passionately, so much that we lampoon the remaining dreamers of the world in American Idol auditions and the comments section of homemade YouTube clips. The prevailing impression is that the only ones who think they're destined for greatness are the Super Sweet Sixteeners and the America's Next Top Model contestants of the world. We no longer believe in our own dreams. Well, I still believe. I don't see why I shouldn't. Many fools are dreamers, that much is true -- but not all dreamers are fools. I've heard the argument -- and even used it myself -- that only the rich are privileged enough to be starving artists, while the poor are driven into their own unspectacular destinies. But these days I don't see anyone reaching outside of their comfort zones at all, whether to become glamorously impoverished artists or world-famous surgeons. All I see is some strange form of embraced mediocrity. Economic downturns happen in all countries and in every era, and to blame all of this complacency on a near-recession is a sort of spiritual scapegoating. In believing in hope for the community, we must believe -- selfishly -- in hope for the individual. Where are the next great architects, doctors, engineers, psychologists, if they're all settling for being college-educated clerks? And where are the next great dancers, writers, musicians, sculptors, if they're all settling for being middle-class corporate drones? We must desire more than what we have. We must desire greatness. We must, at very least, desire desire. Because if there is nothing extraordinary to be desired out of life, why even bother living? That'd be hopeless. Don't Date and Drive First I changed my email address. Then I changed my cell phone number. Then I blocked him and over 20 of our closest friends on Facebook. But that didn't stop him from emailing my work account, or sending me three packages in one week by snail mail. The Amazon.com box appeared on my doorstep, unannounced, a few days after Christmas. I hadn't ordered anything in recent memory, but I knew who had sent it. Only a day earlier, I had discovered a heavy envelope from Express containing a glittery red $50 gift card -- with no note, just a name on the invoice. His. Inside this new box were two books: an anthology of Asian American women writers and a random work of fiction from someone I had never heard of. Again, no note. The small squarish card attached to each book's wrapping was left blank; just a printed name on the default invoice that comes with every shipment. Typical.The third package arrived on New Year's Eve, another book accompanied by a giant stuffed moose. This time I left the book untouched, refusing another outburst of anger that had caused me to rip up the fiction book and send chunks of pages fluttering everywhere in my bedroom only the weekend before. Later, I would give the stuffed toy to a child in better want of it, the (remaining) books to a friend interested in Asian American studies, the gift card to my mother to spend on a nice sweater.I refused, on principle, to merit his attempts with a response of any sort. I would not send them back, a gesture that might be interpreted as hostile. I would not thank him for the belated Christmas gifts. That would be reconciliatory. I would simply pretend as though I had never received them. After all, there had been no note. It wouldn't have made a difference now, but the lack of words -- for there had always been a lack of words -- and his inability to recognize even now that he couldn't just throw money at me and expect instant gratitude, cemented the long-known confirmation that I was right in leaving him. "I've spent so much money on you," he yelled during one of our last arguments. He could've saved himself the spare change by writing back to one of my sentimental emails on occasion.*** *** *** Over half a year after we broke up, I still worry that he might come look for me at my office, drop by my house at night, deliberately bump into me at a community event. I have had to cut off all ties with mutual friends and withdraw from local events he might attend, a decision which has made life at once a helluva lot easier, socially, and a tad more strained, professionally. My job revolves around the Asian American community; he is president of the largest Asian American social network in the city. It's frustrating.I hesitate in telling too many people about my new boyfriend in case he gets wind of it and feels compelled to confront me. I hesitate in answering the door at work sometimes in case he's come to "talk" more about "us," though there hasn't been an "us" for a very long time now. And worst of all, I can't push my new professionals networking group on anyone because that bastard has a handle on the local Asian Am yuppie market.Lesson: Don't date someone in the same industry or someone who has vested interests in your professional field. Seriously. There should be a PSA out for this or something. Don't Date And Drive (Your Career). Just don't do it. Even if you think everything will work out, or if you're saying to yourself, "Yeah, but we're not like that, we'd still stay friends," just don't. DON'T DO IT. Seriously. Thank you, global warming The black wool peacoat I have thrown on before hurrying out the door seems stifling now, and slipping it off as I pass through the dewy iron gates, I am confronted by an almost lukewarm breeze outside. The sidewalk is wet. An unnatural morning of 62 degrees -- following a 9 degree morning less than a week ago -- is baffling, and walking to the bus stop at the corner feels surreal. Is it May already?A few muddy puddles of former snow obstruct my path, though otherwise I have no reason to keep my eyes on the ground. Everything is almost new. Minus a few elements -- the tree branches are still bare and some people are wearing down coats for good measure -- I can nearly smell that familiar soggy greenness of spring, of shoots and new leaves and grass filling the air in herbal remedy to a cold that has lasted for months. It feels like spring in January. This stuff never gets old There is something oddly satisfying in being able to attend a party at your boss' house and introduce a dozen people to your new boyfriend. Like a new food or candy, it becomes irresistibly novel to roll the word around on your tongue and let it slip between your lips every so often so others can have a taste."Hi, how've you been? Have you met V, my boyfriend?" I say unpretentiously to a girl I know. The older women seem taken with him, asking about his job and what life is like on the west coast. Amid chatting with a few board members from work, I glance over every so often and feel an odd sense of pride and wonder. Even in an old sweater and jeans, he looks wonderful. I suddenly see why men like flaunting their arm candy around in public; if something this hot is actually dating you, it's imperative to leak it to the presses before it fades away and no one will ever believe you could land someone that special.Despite the loneliness that comes with long distance, I feel unnaturally gushy today, printing out photos from our New Year's Eve dinner at Smith & Wollensky and rerunning events of the weekend before in my head. It's the sort of feeling that reminds you why, even if things don't work out in the end, the momentary infatuation and absorption with each other that comes with a fresh relationship was so very worth it. Dealer or No Dealer "Pretty cards for a pretty girl."He laid my cards down on the green felt and stole a glance before dealing out to the rest of the table. He had disproportionately large hands; big, but possessing a surprising deftness despite knobby fingers and a lollipop thumb. A wave of stubble covering his jaw matched his mousy brown hair, and his deep voice shook the air."Queens for a queen," he said with a Midwestern twang as he revealed my hand, resting hazy brown eyes on me for a little longer than necessary, then picking up my losing hand and packing them back into the deck. "Easy, tiger," I heard a casino floor manager say in the background.It being Christmas Day, with all the the stores closed and everyone celebrating and congregating, I'd decided to take my heathen self a-gamblin' at the local casino. Big public religious holidays have always made me feel a bit isolated, and I figured there was no better day for indulging in vices than Christmas, having already ogled the gaudy decorations of Macy's department store and spending a vicious amount of money on presents this year. The best I could do was at least win back a bit of pocket change.For the past three hours in the stuffy, smoke-filled sub-level room, amid the jingle of slot machines and the clutter of poker chips, my paigow dealer was being awfully friendly to the newcomer at the table, asking about my good hands and commiserating in my losses. As happily semi-attached as I was, I couldn't help but grin back at him whenever he made an occasional quip and darted a look my way. I stuck around when the game broke to wash the cards, checking my voicemail but remaining in plain view."Not going to keep me company?"I smiled and sat back down as another player returned to the game. "You know," my dealer told him while keeping his hazy eyes on me, "I love having great guys like you here, but there's nothing like having a beautiful lady at the table." Raising an eyebrow and rolling my eyes, I accepted the generic compliment with another grin. There was something about the way he flirted -- so over-the-top, so oblivious to the other four players at the table -- that made it seem kosher to flirt back, or at least, to not deflect him as brusquely as I might anyone else.I've always generally enforced the self-imposed principle of Do Not Flirt With Anyone, Ever, Unless You're Dating Him, In Which Case You're Doing It To Keep Things Fresh. Flirting is misleading, I'd been led to believe for some reason -- a big no-no for women who don't plan on being seen as a cocktease to men everywhere. But I was feeling unnaturally cocky, and incidentally trying to pry myself out of the worldview that seductive women are "asking for it," so I decided to let him go about his charming business without objection, though without reciprocation either (baby steps, mind you). Besides, long distance was tough, and it was nice to be properly flirted with for the first time in a long while, as opposed to being catcalled on the sidewalk by some greasy construction worker.At the end of my winning run, I tipped him two five-dollar chips, a good chunk more than I should've. Stepping on the escalator back up to the first floor, I looked over and caught him looking at me from his table. We grinned at each other and waved. It felt nice, really nice.*** *** *** The next day I was back, bored and still muddling through my last day off of work. Half an hour into my game, my favorite dealer was back, ending his shift at roulette and coming back to paigow poker. "Welcome back," his voice throbbed, and I couldn't help but smile.The next few hours played out much like the first few from the day before, except with more playful banter from my end and more questions from his. When I told him I worked in non-profit, he asked, "Did that require a degree?" I learned that he had been "a carpenter for most of [his] life" and a poker dealer for a little under a year, born and raised in northern Indiana. The carpenter gig explained his big, deft hands."So you work in non-profit, huh? That makes you even more beautiful." I laughed and quickly averted my eyes toward my cards, brushing off the compliment. His straightforward charm caught me off guard. A few hands later while I was shuffling through my cards, I felt his gaze on me, as he was apt to do when he thought I wasn't looking, and in a low voice, those hazy eyes still on me, he said:"You know, you look a lot like my girlfriend. Just like her."I could've hit him in the mouth.Who the hell says that? And what was with all that playful flirting and Midwestern small town charm then? All to tell me I look like his girlfriend? I felt flush with embarrassment, having looked so stupidly gushy in front of all the other players. Tunnel vision, that's what it was. I immediately regretted putting myself out in the open, flirting back like that. Saying nothing, I pretended as though I hadn't heard him and reshuffled my hand. I suddenly regretted tipping him so damn much the day before. A little bit later his girlfriend -- incidentally another dealer at the same casino -- walked by, though I only caught the back of her head. He pointed her out to me. "She's mad at me." "Why?" I asked dumbly. "Because she always gets jealous when there's an attractive woman at the table," he replied. Well considering how much you shamelessly flirt with women, I'd be pissed too if I were her. I mouthed the word "Oh" and kept my eyes on my hand. A sudden wave of guilt and remorse washed over me as I realized she had probably witnessed a fair amount of back-and-forth in the past 48 hours between her boyfriend and another woman. I shriveled up in my seat.He has a girlfriend. You sort-of have a boyfriend (sort of). He's probably an Asian fetishist! She's right here, I can't believe she's right here. This is entirely immoral. Entirely so. I faded out for the next few hands and tried to concentrate on not feeling humiliated and disgusted with myself. A brief period of familiar self-flagellation set in. What I was just doing was wrong, flirting like that, in public too, and what were all the players thinking now? I mean, how dare that cute bastard make googly eyes at me like that and allow me to banter and talk to him about my work and my life and talk to him like it was all just so, so --normal.Wait. What was I doing wrong? We talked about our jobs and our pasts and exchanged a few glances. Last time I checked, that wasn't cheating. It wasn't perfectly moral, either, but hey, I wasn't the one who was tied down. And since my sort-of boyfriend hadn't yet committed to being an actual one... what was the harm?The realization set in that I wasn't a giant whore for accepting a few nice words, and, slowly recovering from that bout of self-loathing, asked about his New Year's Eve plans before making a deliberate segue into my own date for the night. I figured, so long as we realized the other was unavailable, this flirting thing -- it was almost acceptable, wasn't it? I mean, flirting is simply an extended form of communication, and we were communicating. Extendedly.*** *** "So," my dearest dealer asked while paying out the last hand, "Does your boyfriend only do plays, or other stuff as well? Has he been in anything I would recognize?" he asked, glancing at me expectantly. Without looking up, I rattled off a few dramas and sitcoms I knew were on my guy's resume. "He'll also be in the upcoming season of '24'." He mouthed the word "Ah" and moved on."So your girlfriend works here too? Didn't you say earlier that we looked similar?" I asked innocently. He paused and gave me a look. "I know what you're thinking. It's not just because you're both Asian. Really." I grinned. A bit later, I finally caught a glimpse of her; we looked nothing alike. "Don't make a face at me," he said. "You guys do look a little bit similar. Maybe it was -- the boots.""Ah, the boots. Of course." Since his revelation, we had managed to settle into a playfully competitive banter that included subtly comparing significant others and talking about real estate, him asking about rent in Chicago, me commenting on how awful his commute must already be. Occasionally we tossed in a jibe here and there."Well, it's okay. You pretty white boys all look like too sometimes." We grinned at each other and laughed. The epiphany struck me that flirting didn't have to be all about goal-setting -- sometimes you flirt just for the hell of it. Because it makes you feel good about yourself; because you can make someone else feel good about himself too. So long as you're not moving past any moral red tape, there really isn't too much harm to be done, and besides, what we had seemed like a pretty healthy symbiotic partnership to me. He helped me make a bit of pocket change, I tipped him well, we both felt attractive and thrilled for a few hours. What was wrong with that?"I'll be working New Year's Eve, so you know where to find me," he said as I was leaving. "Think you'll come visit me?""I doubt it, but thanks," I said, smiling before bowing out of the next hand. "Happy New Year's." You wouldn't get a mortician a corpse for X'mas, would you? Funny how everyone always gets me books for Christmas. This year my best friend got me a book, my boss got me a book, my cubemate got me a book, an old classmate got me a book, the guy I'm dating got me a book (though I don't know what it is yet) -- and while I love reading, and writing, and reading about writing, I really gotta say: I don't always want a book. Sometimes I do other things than read. Sometimes I wear clothing, use electronic gadgets, watch movies; sometimes I even eat. And drink coffee, a lot of coffee (Starbucks cards welcome, always). Don't get me wrong, I love that people think of me as a writer and avid consumer of literature, and I appreciate the thought that goes into it, but yeah. Kinda funny how that works. I mean, you wouldn't give a tax specialist your 1099 for Christmas, would you? Weekday Smoothie It's a quarter to three in the afternoon. Despite the recent snowfall, the sun hasn't quite been bullied into the shadows yet, beaming politely down every so often to punctuate the day. About 4-5 inches of snow has covered the city over the past two days, although with Street and Sans working hard to salt the sidewalks and keep snow off the streets, you wouldn't be able to tell. It's cold. Walking out to the mailbox or to grab a cup of coffee has become a minor hike, and I've brought in an extra pair of shoes to wear around the office so my snow boots don't muck up the floors. My boss is out sick today. The icy trek from the Belmont El to Halsted in the mornings seems a lot longer in the winter, and I'm always relieved to plunge through the revolving doors and into the warm, yellow lobby of the gym. I've begun to like my morning workouts, as tired as they leave me. There's a sense of accomplishment, of having triumphed over the body and its instinctual need to hibernate and decelerate during the colder months. I see a lot of the same faces. There's a woman usually there around 7 a.m., an hour after I get there, who has one of the most dedicated, vigorous ab routines I've ever seen. She's modest in attire, never wearing the sports-bra-and-yoga-pants ensembles the other local gym junkies are fond of, but always track pants and a long sleeved shirt. I want to say hi just so I can tell her that she's really hardcore, but I don't, of course, since I don't want her to mistake me for hitting on her. Instead I give a polite smile and secretly note what exercises she's doing so I can steal them for later. As far as I can tell, they work. I like to schedule my workout so that I end just around the time the spinning class lets out. The locker room becomes full of laughter and morning complaints, office gossip and makeup tips. The air is humid and smells like half a dozen different lotions. I often wonder if this is what living in a sorority house, or having real sisters, would've been like. After I've properly blow-dried my hair and bundled up, I grab my morning latte in lieu of breakfast and take the Clark bus to work. The hours, the days, they pad along amiably nowadays, sometimes blending into each other as weekdays are apt to, like a weekday smoothie. Sometimes, though, I wish they wouldn't. Thankful for the things we have At the junction of Ohio and Michigan, we pause on the crosswalk and look down the Mag Mile to see the city getting dusted with the first flurry of the year. He stops me as we reach the other side of the street, asks me to appreciate the view of the city -- his old hometown, my home -- a series of steel and glass reaching for a taste of cold confectioner's sugar. Then, he kisses me, our scarves nudging together as my hands wrap around his neck and he tugs on my coat. We walk to Grand station and I wait with him until his train to the airport arrives, nuzzling against him on the subway platform. And then he's off again.Now I'm at home, occasionally checking on my Cajun-style turkey, the heat cranked up to cancel out the 35-degree chill outside. There is family and there is laughter. But I'm trying my best not to break out into little sobs again, even though it sucks every time he leaves or I leave and I realize we can only do so much to create a sense of normalcy over the distance.Still, I'm thankful. Thankful that I have friends, family, and good health. Thankful that I have a steady job. Thankful that I'm beginning to settle into my own skin. Thankful that my sense of self as a writer is developing, one turn of phrase at a time. Thankful that I'm wrapped in the sort of romance I used to daydream about. Just plain thankful, in spite of the chronic obstacles and the bouts of ennui, for life as it is. Happy Thanksgiving. I'm like Cher, I make so many comebacks Ah, the perils of public blogging. I made the mistake of writing too personally, divulging too much emotionally, and linking from an old blog he already knows about. And now I think I've gone and freaked out another one. I can practically hear the pitter-patter of panicked retreat even from 2,000 miles away. Whoops. So please readers, understand if I feel somewhat put off from blogging at the moment. Maybe I'll open up shop again somewhere else, but for now, I'll stick to reading, and possibly making some new friends in the real world. Did I say "closing?" I meant "not blogging for half a day because I was so ticked off at myself." Someone has encouraged me to keep writing and also promised to keep his eyes off my blog because he'd rather I not censor myself (and, amazingly, doesn't think I'm completely bonkers, because "your writing is what attracted me to you in the first place.").Ergo, I'm back. Don't take me off your blogroll just yet. Overheard from my cubicle The gray, padded partition that separates me and my career coach cubemate from seeing each other doesn't always separate us from overhearing each other, and the snippets of conversation I pick up from his clients who come in for resume workshopping are often priceless. Today one of those corporate types came in, decked out in a dark suit and bellowing in an assertive tone I've come to notice many of these finance guys have: Client: "So I don't want my resume to look standard, like most other resumes. I mean, I've read a lot of standard resumes, and they're nothing special, you know?" Cubemate: "I understand. We can work on that." Client: "I want them to know how much I've done for them. Like [insert big firm here]. I romanced him, you know? Romanced him. I don't send my clients thank-you cards, I buy them Dom Perignon and nine-irons." Cubemate: "Right. I got it." Client: "Romanced him. I really romanced him. I do a lot for my clients and I want people to know that. I romance." Yeah, you tell 'em. Today's topic: Stalker, his It's moments like these when I think to myself, I either must really be doing something right, or my being with him is some sort of fluke (in which case, I'll take it). He calls me today and mentions that some "crazy girl, different from the other crazy girl" is trying to bring him lunch and where is he and what kind of food -- salad?? steak?? -- can she bring him. He's never mentioned her before, although apparently she's been actively after him for at least a month now, probably because he's found no reason to tell me about his little stalker or because this happens with enough frequency that he's found nothing extraordinary about the circumstances. Of course my immediate reaction is I'm going to break her legs and then we'll see who's bringing who steak, bitch but I don't say this to him, of course, because he still currently finds my neuroses charming and not intensely annoying, and I'd like to keep it that way for now, the same way I find his occasional forgetful uhmm-ing and ahh-ing between thoughts cute and not irritating, though I'm sure I eventually will one day (you know, should we ever happen to live in the same city for once).Then I realize: Oh geez, this happens to him all the time, doesn't it? He is quite possibly one of the most beautiful men I've ever laid eyes on who is SIMULTANEOUSLY dating me, for God knows what reason, and I have the gall to take for granted the fact that other women aren't falling all over themselves to get to him? Of course they are! You silly, silly girl. He lives in a city where there exists perpetual sun and youth; I live in the Midwest, where I'm lucky if I'm swatting away drunken baseball fans after Cubs games. Of course he gets hit on all the time.And it's moments like these that I think Wouldn't it be nice if we lived in the same city so I'd at least have the option of breaking her legs? Here, I'm powerless. I plod to work under a dreary gray sky, embalmed by the cold and layers of sweaters, while there are probably scores of hot, young things trotting around LA in short shorts and heels and there's nothing I can do about it. I've considered dating other men to ease the edge off, but I can't even bring myself to do that (see Grievances, Oct. 29). It's terrible.But ultimately, I must be doing something right. Right? Otherwise there'd be no reason for him to expend all of this effort and time and energy on our -- what's the word -- relationship. Right? Surely he must realize it'd be far more cost effective if he simply dated some young hot thing in his own time zone who brings him steak and salad for lunch. Surely.Well... let's just hope he's really daft and doesn't realize that. Current mood: ephemeral, lyrical Spending my Veteran's Day off writing articles and trying to catch up with deadlines. It's glum outside back here in Chicago, and my 4-day work trip to San Francisco turned into a minefield of office politics. Barely got to explore the city with what little free time I had, primarily camped out by the donut table at the board meeting, and came back empty-handed in the search for manju since Benkyodo is closed Sundays. Nevertheless, I'm feeling pretty calm. Tranquil, even. Listening to a little Sara Bareilles and a little Priscilla Ahn in my pajamas while I type (having only woken up around noon), letting strands of song float in and out of my thoughts as I plunk the words down. I haven't showered yet. I won't have time to hit the gym today. That's okay. I feel like writing poetry. I feel like poetry, like a line that trails off at the end of a verse and doesn't fancy with any sort of definite finish or future, so ephemeral that it can't be grounded by the semantics of punctuation.Remember the end of the original Little Mermaid story by Hans Christian Andersen? She abandons earthly worry and tragic love to become sea foam, floating above with the other sprites in the sky. I feel like sea foam. Dreaming through days I get lost in daydreams more than I'd like to admit. The soothing space between the walls of my skull is often the most comforting space to be in sometimes. I can be anywhere -- within a summery morning in San Francisco, a power lunch in a high-rise office somewhere in New York, or just here skipping rocks over Lake Michigan somewhere in the city. A walk down State Street, under the Gothic green clock of what was once Marshall Field's. A Christmas party, wearing my new black dress. Living in a hostel in a big city, waitressing by day and writing by night. Making truckloads of money, selling out to corporate PR and wearing suits everyday. Moving to the other side of the world. London. Sydney. Shanghai. Paris. I get lost, and then I don't know where I am.I play soundtracks to my daydreams. Strutting down an office hallway to Muse's "Supermassive Blackhole," watching autumn leaves fall to The Cranberries' "Dreams," being kissed in a dim corner between brownstones to every other song you can think of. It helps pass the time. I daydream on the bus on the way to work, at work, at the gym, on the way home. There's a little television set playing picture-in-picture with reality and it's too easy to let it keep playing to let it stop. I like drifting through days.So here's your lullabyNo girl, don't cry. Just rest your head and go to bed, your time will come to fly away. Never today, just dream your life away. Expiration date June 30, 2008. Fellowship expires, and along with it, the fellow. Where will this fella end up? What will I do with my life? No clue. Things are more complicated than they seem, and options are at once aggravatingly limited and infinitely limitless, when unbound by the walls of convention. It seems a ways away but the end will hasten much sooner than I think. And then, expiration. The eventual fizzling out of my lease on life here. The eventual exhaustion of all resources. If I leave this city I will not be back for years, I know that much. I need to explore the world, have to, in a sense, but it's hard to want roots and know that you can't have them, not just yet. On your mark, get set, NaNoWriMo! It's Oct. 31. Do you know what that means? Well yes, that means it's Halloween. But that also means tomorrow's the start of National Novel Writing Month! I WILL make it through this year. I WILL write that novella. I WILL NOT poop out two weeks through like I have for the past two years. I WILL NOT delete my unfinished work simply because it is unfinished. NaNoWriMo, here I come. And I already have a storyline. Lookit me, all prepared and stuff. Grievances with time and space It's a tough business, long-distance dating. The uncertainties of a budding (dare I use the word) relationship are exacerbated by the uncertainties of time and space -- normally contained units that are suddenly in flux, no longer a backdrop but an integral factor -- and it is often almost as if both parties move in parallel dimensions, in sync yet never allowed to mesh.Separate lives, separate circles -- the long-distance daters are practically pen pals who intermittently participate in coitus. Particularly when it is a fling-turned-regularity, long-distance pairings face the added risk of the emotional slippery slope. That, unfortunately, is where things get ugly.*** *** *** *** I have just reached LAX, waiting for my flight back to O'Hare. A wonderful long weekend, part tranquil, part fun, has slipped by me over the past three days. But strangely, what normally would have constituted a restorative flight home, complete with magazine and 4-hour nap, are replaced by this bizarre 40-minute crying jag in which I have lost all motor control of my face, and silent bursts of saltwater begin trickling down.I am, for a moment, genuinely unsure of what is going on. This has never happened before. What's wrong with me? Why is my face leaking? And then the realization pounces that I am not as carpe diem as I thought I was: he has just dropped me off at the airport and I miss him already. Lame. The underlying paradigm of each weekend spent together being possibly the last one is suddenly not kosher anymore, and I feel a staggering melancholy at the thought of loss. More than that, I feel utterly disappointed in myself for unwittingly becoming so emotionally invested in him.A fling, I remember. It was supposed to be a fling. The various rendezvous in different cities were supposed to be fun and fleeting, fodder for nostalgia down the line; instead they have become bedrock for a strong attachment to someone almost 2,000 miles away. I feel like smacking myself, but I have already drawn enough attention fumbling for change at the Starbucks looking like a mess. In the plane, I stare out the window and avoid eye contact. I have become that awful crying girl, the one who cannot control herself in public. Idiot, me.Only a day earlier he was showing me a few photo albums, flipping casually through years of experiences, lovers before me, a reminder that I am far from special. I am another. Certainly, we are having fun, but this is not to be mistaken for anything more, not at this point in time. He is years ahead, light years ahead. Occasionally I forget the age difference -- simply put, he has had more, and I am still young. In some ways I find it almost unfair. He will always have the advantage of experience, if nothing else (though there is plenty else). Skimming through these history books I understand that fully.The slippery slope of the long-distance fling-turned-regularity is hitting me alarmingly, I realize, and staring at a brilliant fiery sunset from thousands of feet in the air, momentarily subdued by the streaks of purple and amber under a low ceiling of cotton, I tell myself that this should not continue. It's time to end things while I still have time and space to heal.And somehow, I cannot. Idiot, me. One-track mind Having one of those moments where there's only one thing on my mind and I can't shake it and it's as if all the stuff that's rattling in my head is going something like, "Sex. Sex sex sex. NOW."But not that, of course. I was speaking purely in example. Minor but proud memo to self In the same way that the superstitious don't want to jinx a situation by speaking of it, I guess I've always thought it was inappropriate to be openly proud of yourself or your accomplishments, lest something horrible happen to you as punishment for your hubris. (And being a hypochondriac, inklings of retribution follow you everywhere, from the bump on your leg that might be a tumor or the shortness of breath that might be heart failure [try: panic attack].) But I'm beginning to learn that confidence and arrogance don't always have to overlap. So here goes: For once, I feel really good about myself. Usual self-deprecation and bouts of self-loathing aside, I like the way my body is starting to look after six weeks at the gym. Even if it's not perfect, I like it anyway. There. I'm not sure if I believe in karma but I swear that wasn't hubris, so no lightning bolts to the face, please. ATTN: Memo to my readers ...What few of you are left, at any rate. This blog is taking a turn inward. I stopped writing on Wit and Spit for a mish-mash of reasons, one being that I felt stifled in what I could and couldn't say, having too many readers who actually knew me (and having too many who didn't know me) by the end of its run. I've realized I'm not the kind of exhibitionist writer who can bare all and not regret it later. But having come into contact with bloggers here and there, I've also realized that connecting via shared experiences is how we live and survive as human beings. And writing has always been an affirmation of myself and who I am, so I can't let that stop here. On the topic of affirmations -- I've noticed everyone has a different sort of self-esteem-raising ritual, something to remind themselves of their self-worth and push them to not only survive but succeed. One of my friends writes herself motivational e-mails; another tells himself daily affirmations before getting out of bed in the morning. We all give ourselves pep talks. I blog them.Not that I'm as presumptuous as to think that I'm helpful or inspiring in the least, but if my own affirmations happen to reach out to someone feeling the same, so be it. But I'm not blogging for attention anymore; it's too tiring. I'm blogging for me.Starting fresh. West Coast craving Having a San Francisco craving. This particular craving hit me in the middle of the day, right after lunch -- a sudden need to be on the sunny, tranquil strip on Sutter just outside the Japantown entrance, to trundle up to headquarters from the Hotel Tomo and stop for a moment to absorb the breeze and the incline and the curves of the city. For some reason I've begun to associate SF with a sort of peace and happiness I can't seem to enjoy here. Tranquility, really. I've always thought work trips would evoke a certain detached instability, but it's on these three-day, two-night trips that I feel so at ease, wandering through the alleys of Chinatown by myself or laying on top of the bright yellow comforter of the spunky J-pop-inspired hotel room. I wish I could find that in Chicago; here I find a different sort of happiness, the kind that results from years of wandering through the city's enclaves and celebrated spots, from knowing the gridded streets and gritty dives so well that I feel comfortably lodged within the city limits as a competent tourist guide. But that is exactly it: I feel comfortable. Not excited, not warm, but plainly comfortable. I love it with a depth only found in blood and in family. This city is family, but it might be time to move out. Birthday booze run Spent the better part of my lunch break on a midday booze run to Jewel, trying to differentiate bottles in the liquor aisle; apparently, turning 21 doesn't automatically bestow you with wine connoisseur skills, and it certainly doesn't remove any violent allergies to alcohol. Ultimately, I decided on a bottle of The Frenchhouse rosé (it was both pink and cheap, qualities that vibe well with me) and brought it to the register.I guess I was pretty antsy in anticipating this being some sort of Milestone Moment -- the cashier handed back my ID with no fuss or fanfare, and I blurted out, "It's my birthday!" to which she replied, "Um yeah, happy birthday."And considering I won't be able to get through a glass of the stuff without flushing and swelling, I don't see why I shouldn't be a little more somber as well. Ten notes to self Note 1:You are, surprisingly, both smart and pretty. (Whether you believe or not, other people seem to think so.) So be CONFIDENT. Confidence is key. No one likes a self-loathing downer. Note 2: It doesn't matter how many gorgeous, beautiful, size zero, abs-of-steel women he's dated before. He's dating you now. So have a little faith in yourself, okay? He's dating you now, presumably for more reasons than you being a good lay (one can hope). Note 3: It's not attractive when you imply that you're insecure about your appearance. You're gorgeous. You're beautiful. Okay, you're pretty. Above average pretty. Which is GOOD ENOUGH. So stop inquiring about his model/actress/pageant winner exes explicitly so you can Google them. You'll make yourself go insane. Note 4:And no one wants to hear your sob story. So stop dwelling on it. Your situation is beyond your control and no one can save you, so SUCK IT UP and MOVE ON. Note 5: You're wonderful and loyal and reliable. You have SEVERAL redeeming qualities. You write EXCELLENT press releases. You can read really, really, quickly. And you bake a mean oatmeal raisin cookie. Well, you don't, but at least you're trying, which is better than nothing. Note 6: Do not get depressed. Do not get depressed and spread it like a monkey-borne virus.Note 7:You're doing well at work. They like what they've seen. You are a competent, valuable asset to the organization and you will contribute much to their goals over the course of your first year there. Also, you look damn good in pinstripes.Note 8:Have a little more confidence in the way you speak. Five bucks says, if it sounds like you know what you're talking about, people will believe you. And most of the time, you know what you're talking about.Note 9: You will have to push yourself harder at the gym if you really want to look Googleable, not that you have any photos of yourself on the Internet, thankfully.Note 10: Really, there is NO NEED to get depressed, alright? Chin up! Head above the water! Life is fine, right now, just fine, and regardless of the other (non men-related) problems you have, you've got it pretty good. Work is GOOD. Friends are GOOD. Everything's GOOD. Postscript: In all seriousness -- no one is going to rescue you. You will have to save yourself. So chin up, sweetie. It can't be all that bad.