Dearest ex-boyfriend
Forgot you wore a thumb ring
I let that slide, huh.
- - - - -
A New Years Eve (twice)
Was a bad decision (twice)
Inevitable.
- - - - -
Philadelphia
Flew all the way to LA
My apologies.
- - - - -
Middle school was hard
Too many boys to choose from
Too many pimples.
Since I had plenty of sleep and my pupils are perky and alert I’ve decided to take the time to share my 12-step talent with you. Yes, you, too, can achieve the impossible.
STEP ONE: Get to work unreasonably early. Let’s say 9 a.m. Yes, that’s way too early for a Monday.
STEP TWO: Actually do some work. That means opening up whatever Microsoft Office program that allows you to move around some text or numbers, change fonts a couple of times, insert photo (or clip art if that’s your jam), etc. Your mind should start to become jelly in about 15 minutes.
STEP THREE: Noon. Work through lunch. Keep looking, fiddling, saving said Microsoft Office program. You don’t know what you’re doing but at least your work is saved.
STEP FOUR: 3 PM. Decide that it’s time for a smoothie break. You’ve been working hard and you deserve it. Walk over to the local smoothie shop and order the most citrusy and sugartastic smoothie on the menu.
STEP FIVE: Remember that your stomach can’t handle the acidity from juice and start hitting your head while saying “stupid! stupid! stupid! stupid!” Did you actually say it out loud? Good. That’s important.
STEP SIX: Feel a raging headache coming. Look it in the eye and then surrender completely.
STEP SEVEN: 5:30 PM. Say goodbye to your coworkers and that gym class you planned on attending and promptly head west for home.
STEP EIGHT: Arrive at your apartment. Immediately take off pants. Not because you have a headache but because that’s just the right thing to do upon entering one’s own household.
STEP NINE: Take some Advil and Benedryl and crawl into bed, knowing your time is short.
STEP TEN: Text your boyfriend goodbye foreverrrrrrr.
STEP ELEVEN: 6:30 PM. ZZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz…
STEP TWELVE: 6:30 AM. Oh what a beautiful sun we have. Oh how I love its rays as they crash through my blinds and wake such a sleeping beauty. What a great day to get to work early!
*****Results vary depending on stomach acidity levels, reaction to drugs, thickness of blinds, and occupation.
Unless you’ve been living in a hole or not a stay at home mother, you’ve heard of the #1 New York Times Bestseller 50 Shades of Grey. Popularly described as mommy porn, this novel for mature audiences is about a gawky but probably attractive 21 year old woman who is seduced by an insanely hot, kinky-sex craving, multi-billionaire CEO who happens to be under 30. There’s a lot of tender member action, moistness and stern looks. Sign me up!
I failed to buy this blush-provoking paperback on my first trip to Barnes and Noble. I quickly scanned the fiction section then reluctantly moved to the desolate romance section, which happened to be in plain view from the in-store Starbucks. Nonchalantly I looked through the J’s hoping to find E.L. James’ naughty novel. Nowhere to be found.
Seeing how disappointed I was, my boyfriend went to a different Barnes and Noble the next day (to get his own manly books) and asked if I wanted him to buy it if he found it there. I didn’t want him to go through the trouble - it’s like asking him to buy tampons or join me on family vacation. He said he scanned the romance section (what confidence!) but he couldn’t find it there either.
Finally on the third try I mustered the courage (with the tenacious help of a gal pal) to ask a sales associate where I could locate this supposed bestseller. She knew exactly what I was talking about and wouldn’t look me in the eye when she said I could find it on a small table next to customer service.
Lo and behold, sitting on a perfectly described small table, 50 Shades of Grey sat ready for purchase. I didn’t even look around to see if anybody saw me take a copy. In fact I grabbed it proudly, even flinging it around a bit, to show that this little Asian girl is ready to face the phrase “throbbing member.”
Putting in my top and bottom retainers I crawled into bed and opened the book. One hundred pages in and no sex. What is this shit?! I mean there’s sexual tension alright but it isn’t until chapter seven when the author (who happens to be a middle aged, slightly larger woman who wears Chico sweaters and there goes my lady boner! Don’t look at her picture in the back of the book. Bad idea!) reveals a bit of the crazy S&M that we’re all waiting desperately to read. As I push the image of the Mrs. James out of my mind, I turn the pages and imagine a world that I am so fucking glad I’ll never be a part of.
So please don’t make me buy condoms.
84. HOOTERS S.W.O.T. ANALYSIS*
*Source: Conducted research from a first-time patron. Santa Monica, April 15, 2012
Our dim sum, which art in a basket
Hallowed by thy name.
Thy cart come.
Thy lunch be done.
On Wilshire, as it is in Chinatown (or Monterey Park).
Give us this day our daily shu mai,
And forgive us our overeating
As we forgive them that overfeed us.
And lead us not into the surprisingly expensive dishes,
But deliver us from the bill.
For thine is the nourishment,
The power, and the glory,
For ever and ever.
Amen.
The night when I would finally lose my gay club virginity arrived. Friday night I entered The Abbey, West Hollywood’s bread and butter, with only one question - “why did I go through such lengths to look like a tart if nobody is truly appreciating it?”
The night, which was spectacularly entertaining, can only be summed up in questions that I received from strangers.
“Do you want to dance?” (Nonchalantly yelling over a remix of Britney Spears’ Til the World Ends.)
“So where are you from?” (Easy ice breaker that begs to know what kind of Asian I am. I always answer, Seattle. So now I’m racially ambiguous and a tourist.)
“Sooooo… are you bi, straight, lesbian?…Because I’m straight.” (Lies!!!)
“Did you really want to get some air or did you leave because we’re black?” (No, it’s because you guys both have girlfriends but are secretly dating each other. You should probably figure your shit out.)
“Girrrrl, I’m not going to remember you tomorrow but I love you anyways! Can we take a picture?” (Girrrrl, of course!)
“Can you give this twenty to the dancer?” (Don’t know why you don’t want to slip the crumpled twenty into the lady’s crotch, but sure I’ll do it. I slipped an Andrew Jackson into her thong and briefly questioned my sexuality!)
And with that we left The Abbey (and Taco Bell) around 2:30 a.m. feeling loved but very unwanted at the same time. So I answered my own question of the night by booty calling my boyfriend. Surely I could get one man to objectify me.
You know the picture of the two people reading in a bathtub together? Maybe get rid of that. It wasn’t realistic anyways. There is no way you both could fit in there comfortably.
Shit balls! Everyone is on Pinterest now, including your aunt, church youth group leader from high school, and even your boyfriend. You’re regretting your honeymoon period with Pinterest - that trigger happy first week when your repin button said YES to every kitten, avocado recipe and DIY mason jar project. It was a year ago but your pins are still breathing on your board and the consequences lay heavy. So what do you do?
Get rid of every wedding-related post. That means the beautiful Vera Wang gown, the princess cut diamond, the wine cork name cards, the thumb print in the shape of a heart invites. Because let’s face it. You’re probably going to break up eventually and you don’t want him to get a glimpse of how fabulous your wedding to another man is going to be. In fact you might just break up because of it.
Get rid of every baby-related post. I know the Zara toddlers are the cutest things to roam the mommy blogs but you’re 22, not a mother, and shouldn’t be planning your children’s back to nursery ensembles. Plus that ethnically ambiguous child would never come out of your womb, unless you’re Asian like me and only date white guys - not thinking about babies, not thinking about babies, not thinking about babies. So close your legs or grab some high dosed birth control and lay off the baby pictures. You don’t want him to get the wrong idea.
Get rid of every thinspiration post. You know you have a banging body but man that underarm fat is really bugging you. He doesn’t have to know that. Nobody has to know that. Delete.
Get rid of every lovers’ quote post. You might as well say the three most frightening words to him. If the vintage, rose-colored “I feel so safe in your arms” photo doesn’t scream let’s get married, have a baby and lose weight together, I don’t know what does.
After you contemplate these four suggestions, you should realize that you don’t have to delete all these posts because you’re an independent woman (as shown by your ‘Independent Women’ board featuring Beyonce, Sinead O’Connor, Pippa the other sister, and Joan Cusack) and you pin what you want. So go at it, sister. Live your life.
Dear “Buy a ticket. Travel the world. Fall in love. Never come back.”:
Fuck you. You’re everything I want and everything I can’t have. I can’t just pick up and go. Don’t tell me to be young and careless. I already have that planted in my head and I don’t need some instagram photo with white text overlay to encourage me. Of course I want to adventure, to jump into my car and just go somewhere.
But your typography is so convincing.
You understand, right? That I can’t just take off like you want me to. At least not right now. You understand that I have some good things going for me. Things I should be grateful for.
Can we compromise? Driving up the coast, ocean dipping at sunrise. I promise I’ll be back in time for work. It’s just my restless feet and fidgety hands. I think they’re starting to hate my head.
Sincerely,
Sleepless in Santa Monica
Nathalie's Other Blog. The one grandma doesn't know about.
