And the Livin is Easy

Today being the equinox, the longest day of the year, (and the anniversary of my sister's birth), it marks the official beginning of summer. Which seems to be an arbitrary distinction since New York has already seen half a dozen days in the 90 degree range, but whatever.

And since that means I'll be spending more time by the pool and out of town (and later in the summer in Europe for a few glorious weeks), it means that I will have less time with my computer. So, unfortunately, I will be taking a summer hiatus from blogging weekly, but worry not because if anything blogworthy comes along, I will definitely be throwing it up.

In the meantime, happy equinox and summer to everyone! And a very happy 23rd birthday to the little one out west!

It's A Girl!

In honor of Father's Day, I am going to tell the story of how the men in my family became fathers, particularly my own dad and my grandparents.

Now, my parents were immigrants from Taiwan and my sister and I are the first generation of Taiwanese-Americans in our family. So a lot of the customs that my parents grew up with have been lost with us. But one them has been particularly pervasive in our lives.

Patriarchy, aka girls are worthless.

My grandfather on my mother's side is a very successful tycoon in Taiwan, so after he reached a level of success in business, all he wanted was a son to pass his name, legacy, and business onto. Unfortunately for him the first offspring was a daughter (my mother) as were the subsequent four girls. At the fifth girl, my youngest aunt, when the nurse told my grandmother, "It's a girl!" my grandmother literally burst into tears at the prospect of having another child.

Because there really was no other option. My grandfather was (and still is) he patriarch of the family so if he wanted a son, a son was what he was getting. Eleven years after giving birth to my mom, with four other daughters in between, they finally had a son, the son who would carry on the family name and who would be the proud offspring that would care for them in their old age and bring the family pride. It's almost like the story of Henry VIII, except with fewer beheadings.

Except...my uncle JoJo was so spoiled throughout his life that he is now 41 and unemployed, never having had a job in his life, and his wife and three children all live on a stipend from my grandfather. I'm not still not sure what the kids say when their friends ask what their parents do for a living. "Grandpa sends Daddy checks every month because he was born a boy?"

Not that I don't love JoJo. He is far and away my favorite uncle, partly because he lived with us when we were growing up and since he was only 13 years older than me, he always seemed more like an older brother than an uncle to me. Just as now, I feel much more like an aunt to his three children than their cousin, especially given that I am 24 years older than the youngest.

My aunts were not given any of this special treatment and have all turned out to be successful women with families of their own. I think it's pretty awesome that they have all become successful in their own right with minimal help from my grandfather, whereas JoJo is a homemaker for his kids and doesn't have to work since he was born with a penis.

No, I find this whole patriarchy nonsense kind of hilarious, because if you look at it any other way it really is just tragic. So I just listen to this kind of stuff and laugh. But my sister E, oh my crusader the sister E, thinks this is the most unfair thing ever and gets heated up when we discuss JoJo's situation. She wants to sit down our grandfather (once again, the patriarch of our clan), wag her finger in his face, and say, "Well, I hope you have learned your lesson that spoiling your son does not amount to anything good."

I'm sure he'll be quite receptive when she gives him that piece of her mind. I just can't wait to watch.

So the next reasonable assumption is that my parents were hoping for at least one boy in their family. My paternal side was hoping for a male to carry on our family name and my maternal side just wanted a boy because boys are better than girls. (Duh.) They got pregnant only about a year after getting married and even though my parents were struggling immigrant graduate school students, they were ecstatic to have a baby and never considered any other options but keeping it.

Since they hadn't lived in the country long enough to even have health insurance, my mother skipped any sonograms that were available at the time and they opted to wait to find out the sex of the baby. Her mother (my grandmother) and my uncle JoJo flew out a week before her due date to be there when the baby was born. After all, it was to be the firstborn of the new generation, the eldest child of the eldest daughter.

So, on this momentous occasion, they were all crossing their fingers that a healthy boy would be born. And out pops, well, me. It was the first in a long series of woes I would bring to my parents.

My grandmother wasn't allowed in the delivery room, so through the glass window of the waiting area my father had to convey to my grandmother what sex the baby was. So he chose a thumbs down. And my grandma's face fell.

That's right. All those hopes, all those dreams, all that time out the birthing canal, and all I got at the end of that long ride was a thumbs down because I didn't have a penis.

Eventually, they all came to terms with the fact that I was a girl (kind of) and found other things to criticize instead, like the fact that I had naturally dark skin (like the farmers' kids do), and that I was extraordinarily fussy as a child, so much so that I wouldn't let anyone but my mother or JoJo carry me. And later I would start hitting, biting, and throwing fits, but that's a story for another time.

Four years later, my little sister was born, putting an end to my parents' attempts at continuing the family name. Unfortunately, my father's only brother had three girls, so my paternal grandfather is devastated that we are the end of the line.

My mother claims that my father is happy that he had two daughters, but I find it highly suspect that there isn't an ounce of disappointment that he didn't have a son to pass his genes and name onto. I'm pretty sure that this is why my parents chopped all my hair off when I was six and I was mistaken for a boy for the entirety of first grade.

So, sorry Dad, on this Father's Day, I apologize again for being born female (and for being so adamant that I only wanted a little sister, not a brother, which obviously had an impact on the outcome). But I leave you with this tidbit of wisdom, which I am hoping my sister will also impart to our grandfathers:

Girls rule.
Boys Drool.

Oh, So Awkward

So last weekend at S's birthday party, I had another run-in with the most awkward man alive.

Just to recap, I met this awkward specimen a few months ago, when he stunned me with his new levels of awkward conversation. Then he attended my birthday party and suggested we get together while we were both in California.

We texted back and forth while we were both in San Francisco, but never ended up meeting up since I was busy finding a giant donut with my sister. Strangely enough, he even called me one Saturday night at 2AM, which I would usually take to be a booty call. But considering he was staying with his parents and I was crashing at my sister's, that would've been out of the question. Which just makes me think it was another awkward maneuver.

So I was excited to catch up with Awkward when I saw him at S's party. And surprisingly, he seemed excited to see me too. He gave me a very friendly greeting and hug and then proceeded to once again display his unprecedented power to bring conversations to a standstill.

Me: Congratulations on graduating from law school! How's bar studying going?

Awkward: Studying?

Me: Yeah, you know, for that big exam you have to take to practice law...Didn't you start taking the class this week?

Awkward: Oh yeah, the class started, but I don't need to study.

Me: Errrr...why?

Awkward: Because I'm brilliant.

This was said with no irony or facetiousness whatsover, which led to a brief uncomfortable silence.

Me: Sooo...have you gotten placed at the law firm yet? Because someone else mentioned they're having trouble reaching them.

Awkward: What do you mean?

Me: I guess they're not picking up his phone calls?

Awkward: Oh, they always pick up my phone calls. I'm really important.

Another beat.

At this point, I excused myself and found my friend R to roll my eyes at her and ask if he could possibly be for real.

"Yeah he seems really full of himself, and not in a kidding way," R said. "I had no idea what was going on over there, but it looked like he was hitting on you."

I laughed her off: "No, no way. I think it's literally impossible for him to be interested in me."

"No seriously, he was leaning into you and standing close to you. I think he might really have been hitting on you."

I figured she had to be mistaken until I passed him again and he stopped me to ask me, concerned, "You're not leaving are you?"

Which, unless it's coming from the mouth of someone you're actually friends with, is boy-code for, "I hope you're not going anywhere because I'd really like to spend some time with you and bang later tonight, or at the very least drunkenly make out in the corner of the bar."

I told him I was just going to the bathroom and since I was a few drinks deep at this point, figured there wouldn't be any harm in trying to talk to him again.

Boy, was I wrong.

Awkward: Are you excited to start at that shithole school?

Me: You mean the school you just got your law degree from and that I start in the fall? Yes, I'm pretty excited.

Awkward: Why?

Me: Because I am really looking forward to going back to school. What do you have against it?

Awkward: I don't know. I guess in the law school it was just a bunch of Type-A, arrogant, competitive assholes all trying to get ahead.

Me: Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that describe you to a tee?

Awkward: Exactly! That's why I hated everyone there. You can only have one of those types in a crowd and there were just too many there that I had to compete against!

Me: I see...

Awkward: Plus they were all socially backward and awkward.

Me: Once again, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that also describe you?

Awkward: No! I'm not awkward at all!

Me: Um, sure.

Awkward: Just because I have strong opinions and voice them in dissenting crowds which makes me unpopular doesn't make me awkward.

Me: No...but that doesn't really help.

Awkward: What are you talking about? I'm not awkward!

Me: I have to be honest with you. I think you're one of the most awkward people alive.

Awkward: Most. Awkward. Person. Alive?!?! There's no way. S, do you think I'm awkward.

S: I love you, but you really are the most awkward person I've ever met.

Me: Ha, see?

Awkward: No way!

At this point, he asked another one of their coworkers if he is awkward to which the guy answered without even thinking about it, "Yes, absolutely."

I had previously thought that awkward people have to know that they're awkward, like it's some sort of self-awareness that you couldn't possibly miss, like fat girls knowing that they're fat and short guys knowing that they're short. But my major mistake was forgetting the Spare Tire Girls in college.

You see, my college was notorious for having heinous girls (which it did), which gave some of the ugly girls a distorted self-image where they thought they were much prettier than they were. Which led to a lot of fat girls wearing way too little clothing. Seriously, as soon as spring hit, there were eyesores everywhere. It was painful.

The worst were the Spare Tire Girls, who had giant rolls of fat around their waists but due to their sorority sisters saying, "Nooo you can totally pull that off. You look hot!" would walk around wearing shirts that were many sizes too small. Instead of hiding their spare tires, this would have the opposite effect of flaunting their bulges to the maximum. Just thinking about it today gives me the chills.

Anyways, apparently awkwardness works the same way. And although we thought it was common knowledge that Awkward is so awkward it makes your teeth hurt, he had been in the dark. He proceeded to rant about it for some time and turn to the gay guys in the crowd for consolation.

They petted him on the head and assured him that they didn't think he was awkward at all (false), and before we knew it he had left without saying good-bye to any of us. With the gay guys.

My friend T, being the friend that he is, turned to me and said, "Did he just choose a bunch of gay guys over you? That is a BURN! I can see the disappointment all over your face. Do you need a hug?"

I hotly replied, "I'm not disappointed or upset! I just think it's strange that he left without saying bye!"

"It's ok. I know that you're upset that you just got ditched for guys. You let me know if you need that hug."

I know I probably injured Awkward's ego by calling him out for being in awkward in public but I really thought that he knew.

Especially since after leaving with a bunch of gay guys after possibly expressing interest makes it even more awkward than it was before, which I previously had not thought was remotely possible!

It just goes to show you, just when you think you've seen it all, some fat girl with her gut hanging out of her XS tee or an awkward guy will always prove you wrong.

Home Sweet Home

I am enjoying my first week at home after a whirlwind month of May. I flew out to Vancouver at the beginning of the month, then went to my parents' house for a few days, and returned to the city only to head out to Martha's Vineyard last week. I'm just starting to get into the rhythm of my daily life at home and enjoying sleeping in my own bed.

My week in Canada was filled with family and nonstop eating of amazing food. (E and I sampled some pigeon, an Asian-Canadian specialty. It was surprisingly juicy and delicious and even the head is edible. I grossed E out by munching on the skull and beak.) The highlights, in addition to finding out that I am cool, are below:

1) Attending a Mathlete competition, complete with a lightning round and buzzers. As if that wasn't nerdy enough, my 8-year old cousin actually won the fifth grade division (he's only in fourth grade). He won a new Wii and got an awesome trophy and an even awesomer t-shirt.

2) My attempt to start an Olympic curling career. Since I am getting on in years, I figured out a few years ago during the Beijing Olympics that the number of events I could actually compete in are getting pretty limited. At this point, they're pretty much limited to archery and shooting in the Summer Olympics and curling in the Winter Olympics.

So I conveyed my desire to curl to my uncle, thinking that's what Canadians do for fun, right? Well, he called around to all the curling rinks in the area and they were already closed for the season. Apparently it's too expensive to keep the ice frozen during the summer, so they shut the rinks down in the off-season.

Which means my curling career was thwarted right from the very beginning. I was really looking forward to it: the weird shoes, the giant stone, the yelling, "Pull! Pull!" without understanding what it means, everything.

Even more embarrassing than my inability to find out if I am a natural curler, my 8-year old cousin doesn't really grasp sarcasm yet, so he asked me in all seriousness, "Why do you want to win an Olympic medal so badly? Why don't you try figure skating?"

To which I had to explain to him that I was just joking about the whole Olympic thing because I am far too old to really win a medal at this point. And that if I had wanted to compete in figure skating, I would've had to start training over twenty years ago. Especially since Yuna Kim and Mao Asada who respectively won the gold and silver medals this past year in Vancouver were both 19. I'm pretty sure that alone puts me out of contention...not to mention my inability to skate.

3) Spending time with my three-year old cousin, who is a technological savant. The kid can't speak in full sentences, but he can operate an iPad faster than anyone I know. He does everything on it: watches movies, plays games, watches YouTube videos on video games he likes.

One day we went to the mall and assuming he was like every other normal kid on the planet, I stopped at the kids' play area to see if he wanted to play. But he ferociously shook his head and pointed down the right. So I followed his directions and pushed his stroller right into the Apple store. Turns out he wanted to play with the iPhones. I would've been sad about it if I wasn't so busy being impressed.

I hadn't seen him for about a year and what was most fascinating was that since I saw him last, he's developed a personality. He is funny and inquisitive, has active likes and dislikes, and has a penchant for being violent (he likes to throw things and has a history of beating up his brother and sister, who are both about four times his size). He already loves sports, especially baseball and hockey (after all, he is Canadian), so they plan on enrolling him on teams in the near future in the hope that it will be a healthy outlet for his aggression.

Perhaps the best part of the trip was the way he would wake sister E and I up in the morning. Usually he'd wake up and call for his Mommy, but during our stay, at 10:30AM promptly in the morning, while E and I were still in bed, the doorknob would start rattling and a little voice would call out to us. He'd eventually stand up on his tiptoes and maneuver the handle to find his way in and then would climb into bed to talk to us in his barely comprehensible baby babble. It was utterly adorable and I still miss his morning wake-up calls.

The subsequent week in the Vineyard was the epitome of relaxing. S and I spent our days sitting out on her porch and beach, eating the best food New England has to offer (How do they make their clam chowder so good?! I'm convinced they put crack in it. Seriously, I don't even know why we bother with this "Manhattan clam chowder" nonsense; it's so inferior it doesn't even deserve the title of "chowder.), and booking our trip to Europe in August (Our itinerary consists of: Vienna, Prague, Budapest, and Croatia and yes, we can't wait!).

After all the traveling though, it is nice to be home, especially since it is my favorite time of year when it's warm out and I can spend my days sitting in Central Park or out by my parents' pool, but it's not so humid and warm that yet that I don't even have the energy to go outside (I'm talking about you, August, but luckily this year I will be in Europe for the majority of the muggy NYC season.).

And since I don't have another weekend away planned until July, it looks like I will be spending the majority of June enjoying summertime in the city. Couldn't be happier.

Middle School Musical

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Meet the Browns

So my friends and I have this running joke that Brown University isn't a real educational institution. There's no particular reason for this other than the fact that the students there are permitted to create their own majors and when we were driving through Rhode Island once, we were going to stop at Brown to get something to eat but weren't able to since there wasn't one sign on the highway alerting us to the exit for Brown University.

Which has led us to believe it's some sort of invisible or imaginary school, somewhat like Hogwarts, but with a lot less magic and awesome.

A few Saturdays ago I was hanging out with my friend L. She had just been set up with this guy and had made tentative plans to hang out with him that night, but when she texted him to see if they were still on, he replied, "Playing beirut all day, so don't expect anything fancy tonight."

Which is just a bizarre response, unless he was kidding, but I'm not sure that he was. So after some back and forth they decided on a bar that isn't very conducive to a date - it is on a boat in the pier, sells buckets of beers, and tends to be the meeting ground for ex-still-wannabe-current-frat boys. So she asked me to tag along since his friends would be there as well, and therefore she'd have backup if it was awful.

So after getting there and acquiring a bucket of beer, L and I met up with the guy, who turned out to be pretty nice but announced that twenty of his closest friends were about to join us because it was his birthday.

Pause.

That's right, he had made a date with L on the night before his birthday and then tricked her into attending his birthday party instead. I was somewhat puzzled and more curious to meet his "friends," because now I wasn't sure if he had any.

True to his word, ten girls and guys showed up shortly and a flurry of awkward introductions were made, since they all asked how I knew the birthday boy and I had literally met him ten minutes prior.

It turns out they all went to Brown together. Like all of them. As in L and I were the only ones that couldn't join the Brown University Alumni Association. Apparently they still hang out together all the time.

Now, I have no problem with people staying close to college classmates. Some of my best friends are my friends from college. But I said some. As in I have made other friends throughout the years and now my social circle consists of people from a wide variety of backgrounds. Which is natural in a city like New York where there are so many people.

That is why I am slightly wary whenever I meet people that exclusively socialize with their group of friends from college. I know some guys like that from my own college, guys that were fraternity brothers and still live together in disgusting apartments with kegs. Basically, they are trying to live out their fraternity years as long as physically possible. And I personally find that wrong and weird on multiple levels.

So yes, I was slightly weirded out by the Brown kids and felt incredibly awkward and out of place, so I started texting my friend S to come up with an exit strategy.

Me: I am surrounded by these really annoying brown people and it makes me want to vomit.

S: That may be the most racist text I've ever seen.

Me: No no!!!! I meant people that went to Brown University! It wasn't racist at all! If anything it was schoolist!

S: Uh huh.

Me: No seriously! I mean it! They're all really white and really really preppy! Popped collars!

S: Sure.

Me: Really! There's a guy here wearing those Brooks Brothers khakis that have stuff all over them. His have American Flags. He keeps standing up and pointing out how patriotic his pants are. And it's nowhere close to July 4th.

S: Oh, gross.

Me: Yeah, I know.

S: That sounds terrible.

After my escape plan failed due to my accidental racism, I struck up a conversation with the birthday boy's roommates, during which they let me in on the fact that they have lived together since college, for seven years now (warning flags, anyone else?).

I informed them that is almost long enough to be in a common law marriage in NY, at which point they got VERY excited.

Roommate 1: Ohhh I'm going to use your health insurance!

Roommate 2: You better start making some money so you can support me!

Me: You two are pretty excited about this. Have you guys ever been, ahem, more than friends?

Roommate 1: That's my girlfriend sitting over there.

Roommate 2: But yeah, there was that one time.

Roommate 1: Which time?

Roommate 2: You know, the time, in my bed.

Roommate 1: Oooooh yeah! That time!

Me: Are you guys messing with me? What time is this?

Roommate 1: No, no. There was this one time when my sister was staying over so I let her take the bed, and I was going to sleep on the loveseat in the living room, which was really uncomfortable. So when he got home he told me I could sleep in his bed.

Roommate 2: I have a really large king bed, so I didn't care if he slept in my bed as long as he stayed on the other side.

Roommate 1: Yeah, and I didn't want to sleep with my legs in the air on the loveseat, so I was all about it. So we go to sleep, on opposite sides of the bed. And in the morning I wake up, and I feel a hand rubbing me on the chest. And it feels really good! So I let it go for about a minute. Then I open my eyes.

Me: And you saw that it was the hand of a man and freaked out?

Roommate 1: Welll I opened my eyes and I saw these bamboo sticks he has on his wall, and I got confused and was like, "Where am I?" And then I looked over and realized it was him.

Roommate 2: So I can't help it. I have these sleep issues where I all into such a deep sleep that you could punch me and I wouldn't know it. I've sleepwalked other places and have no recollection of it. Plus I wake up every morning spooning my pillow, so I guess that night I thought he was my pillow.

Me: Yes, because the hairy chest of man has the exact same feeling as a pillow...

Roommate 2: I don't remember! I guess he kicked me and woke me up.

Roommate 1: I shook him and said, "Dude you were touching my chest!" And he just mumbled something and went back to sleep.

Roommate 2: Whatever!

I was pretty amused by this story. I don't know too many comfortable heterosexual guys that would tell this story to a stranger and laugh about it. In fact, the last time I heard of two hetero men sharing the same bed at a hotel, they made a point of telling me that they slept on the opposite sides of the bed on the edge and had no contact whatsoever.

I should've just called it a night at this point, because clearly things weren't going to get better. However, on my way off the boat to go to another bar, I saw a girl slip in a puddle and as I started to laugh at her, I slipped in the exact same puddle, and totally wiped out.

Full on, legs in the air, skirt flew up, crashed onto my back on the ramp bit it. And somehow in the process, I also managed to unlock my phone and speed dial my parents. So they received a voice mail of me screeching and cursing. My mom was quite confused and asked me later if I had been drunk. I responded that I wish I had been because it would've hurt less and been less embarrassing.

In retrospect, I was obviously being punished for my racist text message earlier. But really, it was all a misunderstanding. I'm not a fan of Brown people, Brown with a capital B!

The giant bruise on my back will be a reminder to never again make that mistake.

Oot and Aboot, Eh

I'm in Vancouver, Canada to spend some time with my family and bask in the aftermath of the last Olympic games. I try to visit Vancouver once every few years to soak in the scenery of British Columbia (I say this with no irony whatsoever, it is truly beautiful up here), eat lots of really good food, and hang out with my cousins and favorite uncle.

Now, it's obvious that Canada is a different country, but for some reason, it's easy to forget. My mom was under the impression that you don't need a passport to get there and we had to rush my sister's passport to her in San Francisco so that she can cross the border to meet me in Vancouver. When I let her know we were doing this she replied, "At SFO if you're flying to Canada you go to the domestic terminal. Canada is America's hat!"

What's truly odd about it is that immigration in Canada is pretty tough on Americans crossing the border. The last time I went to Vancouver, I was joking around that I shouldn't even need my passport to go, and one of my friends warned me, "Oh no, be careful. They are really thorough. I went there for work just for a day a month ago and they grilled me to find out if I was doing a job that could be accomplished by a Canadian."

I laughed it off, but of course, when I got into Canada, the immigration officer asked me more questions than I have ever been asked entering another country, not even in the years I lived in Tokyo. He had me tell him the address I was staying at, who I was staying with, the names and ages of my cousins, the last time I had been in the country, when I planned on returning to the US, etc, etc. It was baffling.

Of course when I told my friends I would be out of town for a week to go to Canada, it ignited a firestorm of laughter. My friend T happens to be a proud Canadian from Toronto and second to his unnatural love of cats, our favorite thing to make fun of him about is his Canadian citizenship.

My GRE essay was about how Canadians have an inferiority complex to Americans, their tendency to be the red-headed stepchild of North America. I used the South Park Movie Bigger Longer, and Uncut as an example to back up my argument. I remember writing the essay (in my defense, I was really tired, in pain because I had just broken my foot, and slightly zoned out on painkillers) and thinking to myself that I hoped the person who graded my essay wasn't Canadian because then there would be no way I was getting into graduate school.

Well, I turned out getting a perfect score on the essay and when I told T about it, he said, "Oh great, not only did you write a racist essay, but the person who graded your essay was also racist. You must be proud."

I am, actually, and my only regret is that I wasn't able to receive a copy of my essay so that I could show people all the valid points I made about Canada's inferiority complex.

The fact is it's just so easy to make fun of Canadians! They are like Americans, but nicer, more laid back, with funny inflections and access to universal healthcare. Their national sports are lacrosse and hockey. Curling is a really big deal. Bryan Adams. The fact that T once told me that Celine Dion is a national treasure. They put cheese curd and gravy on fries and call it poutine. Vomit.



And strangest of all, they drink their milk out of bags. The first time I heard this, I had a hard time grasping it, but yes, instead of buying milk in cartons, they buy them in giant gallon bags and then place them in plastic pitchers for storage. Apparently this is more environmentally friendly than cartons, but also tends to spoil faster (unsurprisingly).



It's these little differences that set us apart from our neighbors to the north. And also what makes them so lovable.

When I was watching the Olympics with my father, he pointed out that Alexandre Bilodeau "looked so Canadian." And when I asked him what exactly a Canadian looks like, he responded, "You know. He's really handsome but not at all in an arrogant way. If an American guy was that good-looking, he'd be all full of himself about it. But instead, he's just humble and nice."

So, apparently, that is the Canadian look: good-looking but unassuming about it. At least, according to my father. I am only mildly concerned that he will leave my mother for a Canadian man.

For now, I am just going to avoid the poutine and the milk bags, and enjoy my time in the Great White North until I have to return to the land where the handsome guys are full of themselves and douchebags. Which, honestly, though it was definitely not my father's intention, is a pretty decent description of New York.

But, oh well, as they would say in French-speaking Canada(which is a distinction from French-speaking France), "C'est la vie."

What's Love Got To Do With It

I grew up with this romantic fairy-tale notion that if two people love each enough, it can conquer all and they should be together, despite the obstacles. After all, that's the idea we've been fed, right? That love is the end-all be-all and nothing else should matter as long as there's love.

When I read Little Women in third grade, I remember being devastated that Jo and Laurie didn't end up together. I mean, he married her bratty sister Amy. WTF?! They were best friends and clearly loved each other, so in my eight-year old head,I simply could not comprehend why Jo rejected his proposal and the two of them didn't get married. What kind of happy ending is that?

Now, almost twenty years later, I think Louisa May Alcott is a genius, in more ways than one. Although they cared for each other, Jo knew that Laurie wasn't the right man for her and that if they married, they would destroy each other. And even though I couldn't understand it at the time, I totally get it now.

I read Kristin Chenoweth's book of memoirs A Little Bit Wicked last night partly because I love her and partly out of curiosity about her on-again off-again romance with my idol Aaron Sorkin (the brilliant writer of A Few Good Men, Sports Night, and The West Wing).

And it was absurdly clear that they are in awe of each other's talent, have a tremendous respect for one another, and there's a lot of love between the two of them.

But sometimes, that's not enough.

Their coupledom seems to be fraught with complications. She's a Southern Christian; he's New York Jewish. She has never done drugs; he's had a public battle with cocaine. And as a girl who's had trouble just dating people outside of her political affiliation, I have no idea how they reconcile those differences.

This all got me thinking that sometimes, even if two people really do love each other as much as is possible, sometimes they still shouldn't be together. It makes practical sense, that being in love doesn't necessarily mean that you are meant to spend the rest of your lives together. Sometimes, people just don't work well together in relationships, romantic or otherwise.

For example, I've had friends throughout the years that I have loved dearly and still consider close, but I only speak to them once in a while or see them on certain occasions. Sometimes friendships evolve to a place where both of you can can live with it and continue, but it wasn't how the relationship might have looked in the beginning.

And I have loved people, a few some people, with all my heart and had images of wedding dresses and babies in the future, only to discover that would not be a plausible future.

When I broke up with love of my life to date, my college boyfriend, my mother's words of condolence were that I wasn't accommodating enough to make it work (she's notoriously unsympathetic, E and I have been slapped with this lesson multiple times throughout the years). This may or may not be true; I am not particularly accommodating, but I also think we had too many differences and issues to have lasted.

He is now engaged to someone else and they're getting married this summer and from what I can tell from the outside, she is much more similar in personality and life goals to him than I am. Which I have come to realize doesn't mean that we weren't tremendously in love years ago; we just weren't compatible.

And had we stuck it out, which apparently depended on my accommodation level, I'm positive it would've ended in divorce and/or physical injury. Hopefully his upcoming nuptials fare better.

I think sometimes the couples that you root for (I'm talking to you Kate Winslet and Sam Mendes) and are obviously in love, still have "irreconcilable differences" and just can't make it work together. Which is never easy to face, especially if there is still love there.

I guess it's sometimes too much to ask to fall madly in love with someone who you could actually make it work with and grow together with over the years instead of apart.

Perchance To Dream

Years ago I landed my dream job and showed up for my first day in my Theory suit and 3-inch high Louboutins, pretty much as excited as a person can possibly be. I walked out that first day with a burnt hand (coffee accident), blisters from wearing heels all day, and the realization that perhaps this wasn't going to be the job I had envisioned it to be.

I didn't last very long, just long enough to be sure that I couldn't make it work, and after that I was saddled with this nagging concern: What am I going to do now? I was only twenty-five and already jaded with the notion that I no longer had any goals to work toward since my dream job had turned out to be miserable.

I was thinking about this today after a conversation with a friend last night who said she had a similar experience when she got laid off from her company about a year ago and she commented in passing, "I never thought I would end up working in finance; I never saw myself doing this."

It made me wonder how many others feel the same way.

I don't know too many people that LOVE their jobs. No one is a huge fan of working. But I do know a few people, a really small select few, who do have an earnest passion for what they do.

My father, towards the end of his career, was one of these people. He is this complete math and finance nerd who used to read textbooks cover to cover just for the fun of it and thrived in a quantitative position at his firm. But even he took many, many years to get to that place, and was terribly unhappy for about two decades while he was working up the corporate ladder.

I think, on principle, it is hard to take something you love and make a career out of it, and the people that have enough talent and passion to do so are almost inevitably successful.

A decade ago, when I was 17 and graduating from High School, I had no real idea what I wanted to do with my life, which is pretty on par for a 17-year old, but surprisingly, I have come back full circle to where I thought I would like to be. I knew I wanted to write and that I loved to read and somehow along the way I'd like to be able to figure out how to build a career around that.

It wasn't until years later in college that I took my first marketing course and got interested in fashion and my career goals shifted. It's funny how things like that work out.

After all, it's the road blocks that define who we will become. Or I'm just paraphrasing what Steve Jobs said at a Stanford Commencement Speech in 2005.

"I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple...Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."

And I think Conan O'Brien said it best at his farewell address from The Tonight Show: "Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get, but if you work really hard, and you’re kind, amazing things will happen. I’m telling you, amazing things will happen."

Pretty inspiring words.

The eHarmony Sequel

So Part One of my eHarmony experiment was not particularly successful by any definition. Thus, I did not have high hopes for the subsequent chapter.

I was matched up with this guy a few weeks ago who I thought was pretty cute, especially in comparison to the rest of the dudes on eHarmony. However, when I sent his picture to little sister E for her assessment, she didn't seem to agree.

E: He looks like a leprechaun!

Me: He does not!

E: Yes he does, you better watch out for him, I bet he's tricky.

Me: What?

E: If you go out with him, you'll have to keep an eye on him or he'll steal your money.

Me: Yeah I'm pretty sure that's not how leprechauns work...I think they just guard a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

E: But where does he GET the gold?

Me: I don't know, but he doesn't steal it. And even if he did, I don't really carry gold coins on my person on a regular basis.

(Side Note: I looked it up and apparently leprechauns acquire their gold through their day job of mending and making shoes, not stealing. However, they are known to be quite tricky so if you catch one, you need to hold on to him and keep your eyes on him at all times or he will fool you into turning away for a second and hide his pot of gold.)

E: Well, you should still be really careful. He might be a trickster. Are you going to go out with him anyway?

Me: I don't know, he's working late this week so we're trying to figure out a time. He was at the office until midnight last night.

E: Wait, what does he do? Outside of St. Paddy's Day parades and Lucky Charms commercials, of course.

Me: He is a lawyer! He is not a leprechaun! Stop saying that!

(Side Note: Is it weird that I find the making/mending shoes career to be more attractve than the lawyer thing? I mean, I have a LOT of shoes and I don't really require legal advice but fixing my shoes would actually bring something to the table...)

E: Well, I would still bring a friend with you. To make sure he doesn't trick you.

So, even though I didn't agree with E's opinion that eHarmony is a leprechaun, I asked my friend S to possibly screen this dude to see if he is, in fact, a leprechaun.

S: Well, how tall is he?

Me: His profile says he's 5'10".

S: Oh, then you have nothing to worry about! He's clearly not a leprechaun!

Me: I'm glad that you had to ask his height before you confirmed that he isn't a leprechaun.

S: Well, I had to make sure!

Me: Oh, man, what if he's Irish? Or he looks like this?



S: If he shows up and he has an Irish accent, I will laugh my ass off.

Me: If he shows up and he's Irish, I will have to run out of the bar.

After a few scheduling glitches, the Leprechaun and I finally got it together and planned on grabbing drinks on a Friday night while S and I were at a bar.

To prepare for the impending awkwardness and the possibility of meeting a real life leprechaun, S and I started downing shots so I was slightly toasted before he even showed up. Which in retrospect was a terrible idea because if he really HAD been a leprechaun I would have been too drunk to keep an eye on him until he led me to his pot of gold.

Anyways, he showed up at the bar and he was over two feet tall and his only magical power seemed to be that of being able to bring a conversation to an immediate halt with his awkwardness.

He wasn't exactly capable of carrying on a conversation even when given a direct question to answer and S and I continued to glance at each other over the table to raise our eyebrows at each other. And even more awkward, within half an hour he waved at someone across the bar and said, "Oh I invited one of my friends here," which he hadn't mentioned previously.

So his friend showed up with an entourage of six guys who sat down at our table, introduced themselves, and asked how we all knew each other. After a moment of silence, the Leprechaun answered, "We met on the internet."

And his friend asked me, "eHarmony?! Are you on eHarmony?!"

To which I had an entire group of guys turn to look in my direction and gawk.

"To be fair," I told them, "I am a writer and I was doing it as a social experiment so I would have writing material."

As everyone processed this, the Leprechaun asked me, "So if I had taken you out on a date and tried to kiss you, would it have showed up on the internet for the world to see?"

I blushed and laughed awkwardly (seriously, who asks a question like that in front of seven strangers?) and told him I was deferring to my counsel but I was going to plead the fifth.

More shots were consumed by the table and at this point, I realized the room was starting to spin and I wasn't going to be able to make it through the rest of the night if I continued to partake in shots. So I bowed out of the next few rounds, but it was already too late.

Now, this is totally my bad and I take full responsibility for what subsequently followed, but before Leprechaun had officially committed to coming to the bar, I had let my current boy toy, Yawn, know where S and I would be that evening. And through no planning whatsoever, we were at a bar across from the bar he was at.

So when he texted me to tell me he was coming to meet us, my alcohol-riddled brain couldn't think of one reasonable excuse to tell him not to come. When he walked into the bar (keep in mind, S and I are the only girls at a table of half a dozen guys and I am technically on a first date), he came over to give me a hug, sat down next to me, and introduced himself to the rest of the table.

The less-drunk part of my brain thought I could still get away with this if I played it cool and pretended he was just a friend and no one brought up e-Harmony again. However, I was much too drunk to be playing anything smooth at this point, and according to S, within five seconds of sitting down next to me, the rest of the table knew from our body language and the way we acted with one another that he was not just a friend.

S texted me from across the table, "Leprechaun looks sad. I think you crushed him."

Shortly after that, Leprechaun took off, leaving his friends with us, which was kind of strange, but I know now it's because one of the guys had taken a hankering to S and thought he could get somewhere with her.

A little while later, I got that impending feeling of doom, that I was not going to be able to keep down all the alcohol I had just sucked down, and I told Yawn, "I have to go home. Now."

The second I got through the door, I bee-lined for the bathroom and that was where I remained for the next hour. I remember thinking to myself, as I was hugging the toilet, that this was my punishment for having crushed someone'e soul and for dicking over a leprechaun. Those fellows don't take kindly to being messed with.

In addition to getting sick, I woke up the next day at the crack of dawn with a terrible hangover headache and lay there thinking that I had gotten what I deserved. Like seriously, if I was on a date with a guy and he brought another girl, well I would probably punch him in the balls. As my guy friend R later said to me while laughing at me, "Maybe next time, you shouldn't bring your boyfriend on a date."

Not being totally evil, I did (do) feel bad about the whole crushing of Leprechaun's soul and all, so I sent him a casual but apologetic text saying that I was sorry the evening had been awkward and perhaps we shouldn't have had multiple parties present. Unsurprisingly, I did not get a response and really don't expect to any time ever.

All in all, it wasn't my best performance, but at least I didn't get my gold stolen by a little bearded man wearing green.

And in case you were keeping score, it's now eHarmony: 3, Me: 0.

F is for Feminism

Anyone that knows me at all knows that I spend an unhealthy amount of time watching Bravo programming. And I noticed recently that almost all of the women in these shows, from the vapid housewives in The Real Housewives of Orange County to industry women I really actually admire like Kelly Cutrone and Rachel Zoe are constantly fretting about whether they are making the right decisions when it comes to prioritizing their careers and their family lives.

I watch this recurring story play out in various shows time and time again: Rachel Zoe doesn't have children and stresses over her career so much she's not sure she'll ever be able to fit kids in, even though she wants them, because as is she doesn't spend enough time with her husband. Kelly Cutrone, a single mom, has to make work sacrifices to make sure she picks up her daughter every day from school. Kelly Bensimon worries about the psychological toll that her posing in Playboy will have on her daughters. (Ok that one wasn't really a dilemma. Just keep your boobs covered you hussy!)

In college, I was a hardcore feminist. I took it so far that I minored in Women and Gender Studies and took any occasion I could to rant about how the definition of feminism is that women and men should be treated equally and that you don't have to be a crazy "Fem Nazi" to believe that.

Well, now that I'm older, I think that feminism has royally fucked over my generation.

We were fed this idea that we could be and do anything that we wanted, that it was possible to have a successful career, get dinner on the table, and then put on something sexy for the perfect husband after the kids were asleep.

Which is, frankly, a load of horse shit.

Every girl that I know has had that life-altering dilemma to face: do I focus on my career and make it up the corporate ladder or do I try to have a family. And in many cases, it's one or the other: doing both isn't an option.

I have oscillated between the two. At some point I thought I would rather be a wife and mom and then subsequently decided that my career was my priority, no matter the detriment to my social life and relationships. And now I have settled somewhere in the middle. I want to have a fulfilling career and someday be a mom, but am aware that by doing both, I will be doing neither to my greatest capability.

There is no way to have it all it seems.

Yes, I think it is possible to have a career and to have a family. It has been done before and millions of awesome women continue to do it every day. However, I think there is inevitably a certain amount of guilt that comes with doing both, whether it's because you missed picking up the kids from school because of work, or you couldn't get that promotion because you had a family life.

What I resent is the expectation that a woman is supposed to be Superwoman, that she can do both at the same time. No matter what anyone says, men are not held to that high standard yet. As long as they can provide for their families and have a degree of success in their work-life, they are still considered winners.

As I get older, I can feel not only my biological clock starting to tick, but the consequences of whatever decision I make starting to resonate with me. Only time will tell if I my friends and I will be able to pull off the balancing tightrope of managing a career and children, all while having some semblance of a personal life.

Or I can find an awesomely hot, intelligent man who is so secure in himself he would like to devote his life to being a stay-at-home dad. Let him cart the kids around to soccer practice, make me dinner, and then put something sexy on for me! A girl can only dream...

Boys With Girlfriends

I am having a string of bad luck where I keep meeting guys that have girlfriends. It's an age-old story: Girl meets guy that she thinks is a potential future husband. Guy mentions he has a girlfriend. Girl curses the heavens asking why the hell all the good ones are already taken.

My friend J in California has a roommate he has been trying to set me up with for forever, except for the fact that they live 3,000 miles away from me. But as a joke, Cali Boy and I would always kid around about getting together if I ever got out there. We talked on the phone multiple times and one night when I was feeling blue, he even sent me a picture of his ass to make me laugh and cheer me up.

This has been going on for about five years, so I was pretty excited to meet him in person. And in addition to being a nice guy, he is quite possibly the most adorable human being I have ever met. He is really cute, kind of nerdy, successful, funny, smart, and knows how to have a good time. Basically, he would be my soul mate if I believed in such things.

But, of course, by the time I made it out to California to visit, he had found himself a girlfriend. They've only been together two months, but they're serious enough that they are going on a trip to Germany together soon (so he can race and buy a BMW, could he be any more awesome?). She seems perfectly nice and whatnot, but really she's just getting in the way of me being with my perfect man.

So now, all I can really do is wait for them to break up and for him to decide to move to Manhattan to be with me. Hey, you never know, it could totally happen!

Then, closely following this heartbreaking tragedy, I went to a barbeque with my friend A to see some of her friends from high school. And the host, Roadie, turned out to be a very cute, successful guy with an amazing apartment and a puppy (two things that independently would be enough for me to date him, so together are astronomically more powerful).

Within an hour of meeting me, he turned to me and said, "So do you have a boyfriend? Because you're really hot so I don't know how you could be single."

Completely thrown off by the question, I blushed and said, "No, and that was really awkward."

He then proceeded to tease me about my discomfort with the question, but when I turned it back on him, he admitted that he has a girlfriend who he has been with for two and a half years and is moving to New York soon to be with him.

Now, I am not one of those girls who thinks guys are more attractive when they are taken. Usually, once a guy reveals that he is taken, he becomes invisible to me. As in later someone will mention him and ask if I remember him and all I recall is empty space where he was standing.

To my knowledge, I have only homewrecked once. It was six years ago, when I was a senior in college, and I met and started hooking up with a guy who had a girlfriend of seven years (that's right, SEVEN years).

They were doing the long-distance thing, and he broke up with her shortly after we became an item. Him and I actually ended up dating for a few months despite the fact that he was a total and utter moron. (In my defense, he had blue eyes AND played soccer and is now at one of the best medical schools in the country studying to be a brain surgeon.)

And honestly, I did feel really guilty about the whole thing. I was convinced for a little while that it would give me bad dating karma for the next seven years (apparently in my mind hooking up with a guy with a girlfriend has a penalty the same length of time as breaking a mirror).

But he ended up moving on and is currently dating someone else entirely, which eased my soul slightly and perhaps lessened my bad karma sentence by a few years.

So, back to my story, when Roadie revealed that he had a girlfriend, I mentally moved him from the "someone I would date" category into the friend zone. He continued to be very flirtatious, though, and kept joking that we were going to get married and referring to me as his "fiance."

A few hours of day-drinking later, he tried to have a serious conversation with me by starting, "So, if I didn't have a girlfriend, would you go out with me? Because I've been thinking about it, and I think on our first date I would come pick you up, take you to this Japanese restaurant that would blow your mind, and then walk you home. I wouldn't even try to get in the front door because I like and respect you that much."

I told him no, that it was a sweet offer, but I don't date guys with girlfriends.

And he looked into my eyes with his pretty blue eyes and said, "But you have to admit, there's something between us. There's chemistry there. I think you are a beautiful girl, inside and out. And I'd just like to get to know you better and hang out. I'm so glad that you came today and I got to meet you."

To my credit, I held strong to my resolve and told him that I don't think it's a great idea for us to hang out together. Which didn't stop me from giving him my phone number, but hey, I'm still human. And I still wouldn't go out with him if he asked. I swear!

Later, on the walk home, A asked me if I would ever consider dating Roadie because he's a really good guy and is questioning his commitment to his relationship, versus being a complete out-and-out scumbag.

I told her that I might consider it if he was single, but that was irrelevant so it wasn't even worth pondering to begin with.

So twice in a week I met someone with dating potential only to have the universe shut me down and reiterate that all the good guys in my age range are already taken by girls that snatched them up earlier.

Damn you, Universe!

The Epic Saga of a Giant Donut

So I know what you're thinking (and by you, I mean A). You saw the title and you thought to yourself, "Oh no Stinger's life has sunk to such lows that she has utterly nothing to write about, so she's going to tell the story about a giant donut."

Well, worry not, Fair Reader, because my life may be boring but the story about the giant donut is nothing short of legen - wait for it, I hope you're not lactose intolerant because the last part is - DARY. That's right.

Months ago in Puerto Rico, my sister and I were sharing a room and watching Man Vs. Food, an awesome show on the Travel Channel where this guy Adam Richman goes around trying to beat food challenges (this was the direct catalyst for my New Year's Resolution to succeed in at least one food challenge this year). Two amazing things came out of this mini-marathon of watching Adam take on 10-pound pizzas and wings so spicy they cause heart attacks.

First of all, little sister E found her future spouse, Greg Moomsie aka the Great Moomsie, The Great Moomsie is a skinny little shit of a guy who manages to consume massive amounts of food for a living. And there is something about this that my sister finds to be totally sexy. So Moomsie, if you're reading this, feel free to give little E a call because she is just waiting to binge at the Chicken Shack with you.

The second most awesome thing was we started our hunt for a giant donut. In the Austin episode, Adam visits this bakery famous for its donuts and they make a giant donut that's two feet wide and requires a bucket to make the imprint in the dough. And it looked delicious. So E and I just turned to each there and simultaneously said, "We. Need. Giant. Donut."

We searched all over NY for a giant donut but couldn't find anywhere that made them and even found a Yelp posting from someone in Ohio titled, "HELP! NEED GIANT DONUT!" It seems there is a network of people out there looking for oversized delicious pastries, and now, E and I are proud members.

So fast forward a few months and E and I were researching places we could go in California while I was visiting out there. E found a posting on Yelp for a bakery that makes giant donuts and we started scheduling our days around it. Bob's Donut & Pastry Shop does in fact make giant donuts, either glazed or maple-glazed. And they're open 24-hours a day to satiate your giant donut cravings, even at 4AM!

We got the maple-glazed, because it seemed more special, and it was absolutely delicious. You'd think a giant donut would be too doughy in the middle or too hard on the outside, or the bread to glaze ratio wuld be too low, but I am telling you it is perfect. It's so soft it melts in your mouth and might possibly be my new favorite dessert. From now on when I have people over, I'm going to order one and say, "Would you care for some dessert? I can offer you a slice off this giant donut."

When we were leaving Bob's, we saw a guy order a regular donut to which E scoffed, "Oh look at you buying your regular-sized donut when you could've gotten a giant donut. What a sucker!" We thought it would be great to stand outside the shop and heckle the people that bought regular-sized pastries like, "Oh pshaw! A cruller?! What's wrong with you - there are GIANT DONUTS in there!"

We chronicled the giant donut with a photo.



Anyways, you would think that would be the end of the giant donut adventure, but no, there is more.

When I got back to New York, the parents and I went to dinner at Per Se for my mother's birthday and I recounted the story for them.

My father, in typical my father fashion, looked confused and said, "But why would you want a giant donut?"

To which I obviously replied, "Um, why WOULDN'T you?"

Unfortunately, during this exchange the very hot waiter was nearby and he wandered over and said, "Did I just hear someone say giant donut?"

I explained, "Yes, you heard correctly. I went to California last week and my sister and I bought a giant donut the size of my face. It was awesome."

He laughed and asked if we finished it and I told him unfortunately, we did not.

Half an hour later, he came by to pour our wine and told me, "So I told the chef about your giant donut and he laughed and said it's great. He's very impressed."

Thinking the chef was some unknown but hardworking sous chef who I didn't care about, I was amused but didn't think much of it.

Two hours and eleven courses later (yes, it was the longest dinner ever), our desserts came out and the waiter brought us special extra desserts: coffee and donuts. "The chef specially made these for you because of your love of giant donuts!" he said. "I'm sorry, these are regular-sized donuts, but I hope they're acceptable. I know you usually like the giant ones."

First of all, that's what she said. Secondly, the donut was delicious.

Thirdly, the waiter asked if we'd like to meet the chef and take a tour of the kitchen, which we did. And we walked into the kitchen to see this guy:


Thomas. Keller.

Now unless you're a giant food nerd like me, or you just spend a lot of time watching the Food Network, you probably have no idea who he is. But per his Wikipedia page, Thomas Keller has "won multiple awards from the James Beard Foundation, notably the Best California Chef in 1996, and the Best Chef in America in 1997. The restaurant is a perennial winner in the annual Restaurant Magazine list of the Top 50 Restaurants of the World....He is the only American chef to have been awarded simultaneous Michelin stars for two different restaurants."

In other words, if the world of French epicurial arts were a terrorist organization threatening American soil, Thomas Keller would be Jack Bauer. He kicks French culinary ass. He is a legend among chefs. Plus he was in the Pixar movie Ratatouille:



So totally giddy, like a teenage girl in the 80s meeting Scott Baio, I shook his hand, told him what a huge fan I am, and thanked him for his donut. Walking out of the kitchen, I realized what an enormous fool I had made out of myself and for the rest of my days, I will now be known to him as "the giant donut girl."

I may never live down the shame, but at least I can tell people that one of the greatest chefs in the world, Thomas Keller, made me a regular-sized donut.

I Heart NY

So I recently had a close call. I came thisclose to leaving New York. For good. I got accepted into my dream school in California and last week I flew out there to visit and contemplate the big move west. And although the weather was lovely and I had a great time with my sister and my friend J and a delicious giant donut, it hit me at some point that I couldn't possibly live there, at least not long-term.

The main problem is that I'm spoiled. Living in New York means that I have everything I could ever want right outside my apartment. I probably should've moved to California right after college, and then worked my way up to Manhattan, but now that I'm used to this, there really is nowhere else to go. So I guess, for better or worse, I am going to be here for a long time.

I am not putting down my friends that live in other cities at all. For each person, home means an entirely different thing. And for me, I need a city that is always exciting, where there are thousands of possibilities and you can never be bored. Even though there are times where that can be draining, just thinking about the possibility of leaving got me really contemplative about the time I have spent here, and what the past five yeas of my life have looked like.

I remember moving into my first apartment, a studio on the Upper East Side, full of equal parts terror and elation. And even though none of it was what I expected and it wasn’t at all how I thought my life would turn out, I loved (almost) every minute of it. I grew up here, learned how to fend for myself, learned that being a grownup doesn’t just entail paying rent, eating whatever you want, and having the freedom to stay out all night.

I found out that Manhattan life isn’t the glamorous, shiny depiction Sex and the City makes it out to be, but that it IS an endless party and there is no other city that can compare. I’ve roamed the streets all hours of the night and early morning and taken solace in the fact that there are always other people doing the same, that this city is an alive, pulsating organism that is constantly changing and always exciting.

For the past five years, and what now feels like forever, this city has been my home. That is no small feat considering I spent the majority of my childhood and teenage years moving around, so in many ways, this is the first place I have ever felt that way about. Every time my train has pulled into Grand Central Station, or my plane has touched down on the JFK tarmac, I have felt the flooding of relief flow through my body with the knowledge that I am home again.

If I could boil down my five years down to a mental scrapbook of memories, it would consist of:

1) The night R and S and I crashed a bachelor party and then stayed out all night taking tequila shots and playing beer pong at these random guys’ apartment

2) The first date M and I went on at Momofuku and Bar Jamon and when he finally kissed me and everything changed

3) The hilarious conversations I had over family dinners where my father would dish out non sequitors like his desire to be a gangsta and the fact that he goes to strip clubs

4) The way the city smells when the seasons change and I could just walk outside and know that it was officially spring

5) The night I met A when we started out with beergaritas and ended up having a dance party at Bull’s Head until 5AM

6) That perfect autumn day we spent the entire day at Central Park walking around and watching the monkeys at the zoo

7) The nights I went out with my little sister when she finally turned 21, even the one where she tried to serve me champagne that smelled like feet

8) Speaking of champagne, the Champain Tuesday at Superdive where we had a turf war at the bar and S tried to break a guy's hand and I actually broke my foot

9) Multiple trips out of town, all adventures in their own right, and some of them validation that I live in the best city in the world. Highlights include the weekend in Miami where R and I did nothing but sit out by the pool and party (oh, and I almost died while snorkeling). And of course the road trip up to Martha’s Vineyard where S and I drove T crazy by playing Miley Cyrus nonstop, we crashed a wedding reception at the Holiday Inn in Falmouth, and spent the weekend eating clam chowder and doing jigsaw puzzles

10) Walking home to my apartment in the middle of the night, full of excitement and anticipation because I had just had the world’s perfect first kiss

And that’s not even counting the best nights, the nights when my friends and I would just sit around in someone’s apartment, drinking wine and making each other laugh so hard that it physically hurt.

So thank goodness I am not leaving, because I couldn't even imagine the adventures that I would miss out on with my besties in the years to come!

A hundred times have I thought New York is a catastrophe, and fifty times: It is a beautiful catastrophe.

- Le Corbusier

The eHarmony Experiment

I'm participating in what I like to call a social experiment, but the rest of the population refers to as eHarmony.

I haven't been going out as much as I usually do, mostly due to the fact that it's winter and cold out and given the option of bundling up in multiple layers and standing outside in freezing temperatures to hail a cab, I'd much rather just stay in my heated apartment and watch reruns of House.

Therefore, as a way to make up for the time I'm not spending in bars, and in an attempt to find some writing material, I signed up for eHarmony.

The questionnaire, which I had attempted before and given up on, took literally two days for me to get to. And unfortunately, that was the high point of the experience thus far.

My matches were beyond awful. I mean terrible. Bald. Old. Fat. Jersey. You name it, I was NOT getting the cream of the crop. And what's even worse is that they were rejecting me. On eHarmony, when you are matched up with someone you and him both have the option to close the match, as in, "Sorry I am not interested in you."

And before I was even getting the opportunity to, these guys were closing the match on me! If I had gone into this with any actual optimism or less confidence in myself, well I would've killed myself. It's actually painful to find out that John, 35, bald and overweight, in Jersey City, has deemed me not worthy of dating.

So the first guy I had any communication with turned out to be Sal, 27, Lawyer, Brooklyn. He wrote me an e-mail and even though he was much shorter than my minimum (5'8", usually my minimum is 5'10"), I wrote him back because he seemed really nice.

After the usual exchange of standard information (what we do, where we live, where we're from), I asked him where he went to college.

And it turns out that he not only went to my alma mater, he also graduated in my year. I did not go to a very large school; there were only about 1,000 in my graduating class, so that narrowed it down quite a bit.

I freaked out and then looked him up on Facebook, checked out our mutual friends, and vaguely remembered him being in the vicinity throughout my college years. There was nothing specifically wrong with him. He was just, well short, and kind of blah, and only so-so looking. And since I thought I was hot shit in college, I never gave him a second glance.

So basically, I am being matched up with people I deemed unworthy of dating five years ago. My friend T, when I told him this, just laughed at me and said I should get used to it because male stock rises as they age, and female stock plummets. "Face it," he said, "You're going down with every year. Better snatch this guy up while you still can before he climbs out of your league!"

Wise words from T...

The next guy that wrote me on eHarmony was Brian, 32, Lawyer, Queens. (Why are there so many lawyers on eHarmony btw?) His e-mail was actually very interesting, full of experiences from his travels and his interests. He plays the guitar, cooks, travels, has a job, all the general good-on-paper qualities that one looks for in a companion.

So after a few e-mails back and forth, I agreed to meet him for drinks. We went to a bar and I was really nervous given that it was my first eHarmony blind date. It turned out that he was a perfectly nice guy and we actually talked for a few hours, but I could tell within the first ten minutes that I just wasn't attracted to him. And as much as I tried (more beer, squinting, tuning him out when he talked), I couldn't really change that.

He insisted on walking me home, which made for a super awkward door moment when he tried to kiss me, and I ducked. Struggling for something to diffuse the situation, I said, "Sorry, I have a policy of not kissing on the first date."

Later, when I recounted this to my friends, my friend R said, "Oh wow, that's cold. I guess he doesn't know that you usually put out on the first date." Even my little sister burst out laughing. I am pretty sure my friends are telling me indirectly that I am a giant ho-bag, but I will gloss over this for now.

So, after accepting my excuse that I don't kiss on the first date (What am I, Mormon?), he e-mailed me first thing the next day saying he had a great time and wanted to go out again. I told him I was going out of town to buy myself a week to figure out how to proceed. And then after a week, I sent him an e-mail that he's a really nice guy, but I just wanted to be friends.

He wrote back saying that he definitely wants to be friends, so we made plans to go out for drinks the following week. Having an inkling that things might be weird, I invited my friend S to come along as backup, and she brought her boy toy, so my plan ended up backfiring because it resembled a double date.

Thus, I resorted to my back-up plan, and to make it utterly clear that I just want to be friends and have no interest in dating him, S and I started discussing the various bartenders that I find to be really hot and the guy that I'm currently seeing.

I made my point so much that when eHarmony got up to go to the bathroom, S's boy toy looked at me and said, "So you're not interested in dating this guy, right? Because you've been talking about other guys non-stop. At first I thought you guys were on a date, and I felt so sorry for him. But I gather that's not the case. Poor guy."

A few beers later, we all left together and I said goodbye to S and boy toy and hailed myself a cab. I turned around to say good night to eHarmony when he jumped into the cab without my permission.

Me: Um, where are you going?

eHarmony: To the subway, but I'll drop you off at home first.

Me: But I live all the way across town and the subway is right here.

eHarmony: It's ok.

Me: But...I'm actually not going home...

eHarmony: Oh, where are you going?

Me: I'm going to go meet someone...

Pause.

eHarmony: Oh I see. Well I'll just get out there.

Yep, that's right. He basically rode a cab with me to let me go hook up with another guy. Totally humiliating for him and awkward (and slightly whorish) for me.

Needless to say, I haven't heard from eHarmony recently.

In my defense, I did make it clear in every way that I know how that I am not interested in dating him. I sent him an e-mail saying I wanted to be friends. He acknowledged and responded to the e-mail, agreeing to be friends. Then I talked about other guys I AM attracted to in front of him.

And after all this, he thought that if he just climbed into a cab with me and took me to my apartment after two beers, I might change my mind? Just because he was there? Or maybe he thought I'd be easier than before and put out anyway? Either way, it didn't really work out in his favor.

The eHarmony experiment ends at the end of this month, after which I am cancelling my subscription. To anyone truly looking for a relationship, I wouldn't recommend eHarmony just because of the sheer volume of crappy dudes and the lack of anyone that remotely resembles someone worth dating.

But if you are looking to be amused and to meet guys that are nice, good on paper, and generally blah, well then, you are in the right place!