Boy, do I have some Tales to Tell...
I occasionally watch some reality TV. Okay, I am hooked on America's Next Top Model
. I admit that I love watching to see who gets kicked off next. I have my favorites that I root for. And that I feel bad when they are eliminated. Of course, there are always those that I hope get kicked off immediately. And I do mean that. Who wants to see any of the assholes get more air time.
What I don't understand are people who get onto a show and then talk about missing their kids/boyfriend/wife/whatever. They start crying and getting emotional. They start talking about quitting because they can't stand to be away from their whatevers for 3 weeks and they miss them and think they are missing out on their experiences and blah blah blah blah blah. WHAT?!?!?!?! I thought you tried out for this because it was your dream? Sounds more like your nightmare. Then again, I should not be surprised. I have always said that everyone who goes on reality TV just wants to get on TV. They don't want to be the Next Whatever. It's all about air time. It's all about attention.
I also don't get it when people complain about how hard it is to do something. You know - like sit in front of a camera and get your picture taken. Or learn some of the simplest choreography known to man. I can't even imagine how hard it is. I am sure striking a pose or gyrating your hips can be torturous. I've tried it at home and I need a nap afterward.
Nonetheless, I still show up for reruns/re-broadcasts of both shows. Maybe I should start making fun of myself rather than the contestants on both shows. Later.
I started work at 10:00am this morning. Around 11:00am, I started feeling sorry for myself. It was around that time that the boys started to trickle into the store to buy some refreshments for the day. A few were obviously shopping for get-togethers for Pride Weekend. I started to feel left-out. I felt low. Despite my feelings, I kept a happy face.
My partner had agreed to pick me up when I finished work. He showed up a half hour early. I got the okay to leave work early and we decided to head out for some dinner instead of grocery shopping. We went to Elmo since it did serve some good drinks and good food. They had a DJ spinning some good music. The place was busy but began to empty out about an hour later. It was obvious that people were headed to the Pier Dance.
A few drinks later (plus some fried chicken), I started to feel better. We were enjoying ourselves. Talking about our upcoming vacation. Talking about the past. Talking about whatever we wanted. Then he said it. He said, "We're lucky. We're lucky that we have each other. I love you. Happy Pride." I looked at him and smiled. I said, "I love you too. We are lucky. We are lucky to have each other."
We headed home. On the way home, we stopped by the wine store I used to work for to get some wine. A guy I hired was working that day. He gave me a big hug, and even though he is hetero, asked me if I was enjoying Pride Weekend. After a split second, I said, "Yeah."
So. Here I am. Tipsy on about a bottle and a half of wine. Tired but content. My partner is asleep. My best friend called me to wish me Happy Gay Pride. I miss her. She misses me. But you know what. I'm lucky. Lucky to have had some of the best memories one could ask for. Lucky to have a partner in life. Lucky to have a best friend. Lucky to be where I am. And most of all, lucky to be me.
Happy Gay Pride to all my bretheren. Later.
About five years ago this weekend, my best friend Kelsie came into town. She had just recently moved with her fiance to Southern Jersey. Kelsie and I were inseperable when she lived in NYC. Going out was the norm, hanging out was our pastime. For Gay Pride weekends, we barely slept. So, on her first Pride weekend living in Jersey, she decided to come back to NYC for some good ol'-fashion' dancin'.
We were going to the Roxy at 11:00pm to beat the madness of getting in. Her words to me were, "I am only staying until 2. Give me the keys and just buzz when you get home. Cause I know you. You'll stay forever." So, I hand her the keys. I can't remember who was doing the warm up spinning but he was amazing. We were having so much fun until he kicked in the words "Weeeee Belong....." Our jaws dropped. We stopped for about 5 seconds. Stared into each others eyes. Then let out this enormous scream. I think I may have dropped to the floor because I needed a moment. I remember not wanting it to end. I remember singing all the words with Kelsie. I remember dancing on air. I remember a bunch of boys surrounding us and singing along. I remember the hugs we got from so many perfect strangers when it was done. I remember feeling that the song was just perfectly long enough for me to enjoy but not get sick of. I remember the pride, joy, and happiness that I felt sharing an amazing moment with my best friend.
I also remember pulling her off the dance floor at 5:00am. Later.
I normally don't care what people think of certain things that I do. A long time ago I did but, after some soul-searching, now I don't. If you feel that you need to judge what I do, then that is absolutely your prerogative. I really don't mind. I'm comfortable with my decisions.
Lately though, I have become irritated by some comments that are made when somebody finds out a certain thing about me. Not so irritated that I want to bitch-slap anyone but enough that I think about it. You see, I like to cook. I love to cook a lot. As a matter of fact, as I type this entry, I am roasting some eggplant and red bells to make my ratatouille. I am also about to make a batch of bolognese. Plus I am thinking of making a mung bean stew. Of course, I am also going to head to the gym, get some wine, and meet a friend for dinner. If you are tired just reading this, I don't blame you. It's a lot. But I myself do not consider cooking work. I consider it play.
So, back to my irritant. There are days when I don't start work until 2:30pm. On those days, I actually do cook before I leave for work, so that my partner has something to eat once he gets home. On days when I get home at 7:00pm, I still cook so that we can eat by 8:30pm. I also cook because I would like to have something to eat. When people discover that I cook before I head to work, their first comment is always, "You cook for your man?!??!?!?"
Why, yes. I cook for my partner. He and I both have to eat. What irritates me is the follow up line. It tends to go something like, "You are such a wife." WHAT!!!!!! When did cooking for someone become solely a wife/female/passive role? And what is wrong with cooking for your partner/spouse? Or being a wife? I think it is one of the most loving things you can do. My response to people who call me a wife is, "Well, I cook so we can eat. My point of view is not as narrow as yours."
As all my friends will tell you, if you ever visit me, I will suggest coming over to my place first so I can cook you a meal before I suggest going out for food. I just always do. I just feel it's a better way to spend time together. And the food is always so much better than what you get out there. I hate when people think that me cooking for someone is some way oppressive. If someone cooked for me, I would love it. I find it very generous. What better way to share oneself than by offering sustinence? I don't even mind being called a wife because, hey, let's face it, I can be a wife sometimes. Actually, I damn fine one. I'm just irritated by the insinuation that I am somehow weak because I do things for my partner. I think that you are weak when you don't do something that you love to do because you fear judgement of your actions. That is weak.
Oh, and for the record: Mike gets back from a business trip tonight. And he will have dinner ready for him. Later.
A very Happy Pride Week to all of you out there. Even if you aren't a homosexual. Be proud. Granted, I have to work this entire weekend because a bunch of people asked for the weekend off. None of which are homosexuals. Or at least, I don't think so. Don't they know it's my official holiday? Isn't it? Later.
One of my least favorite thing in the world is trimming my own toe nails. From since I can remember, I have always hated doing it. I would rather go to the dentist for a cavity filling rather than cut my toe nails. I don't really know why I hate it. I just do. I know some people think it may be gross
. Maybe some of you think ungroomed nails may be sexy
. I'll let you decide:
I thought I would add a sixth little piggy. What do you think? Later.
Update: Whoa! Apparently
, I'm not the only foot in blogland
This is my sweetness, Leena. Awwww...
Okay, everyone. Listen carefully. Remember: I am not, nor have I ever been, or will I ever be a quiet, demure, unopinionated, and reserved Asian man. I will never back down if you try to talk down to me. Oh, and English is my first language hence the lack of an accent. AND I am not deaf, so you don't have to speak slowly and loudly when you ask me a question.
I love New York City. I really do. I plan on living here forever. I really do. I like what it has to offer. I like that it "never sleeps". I like that I have the world just a subway ride away. I like that the NYC community is progressive and diverse.
The thing is, I wonder about some of the people in this city. If you have ever lived here, I am sure you have wondered about them too. Now, there are many to ponder, so I am only going to talk about the ones who are terminally angry and perpetually confrontational. I'll even narrow them down to those that have some sort of income that allows them to shop in places like Whole Foods and Bloomingdale's.
There's the skinny old lady who's entirely-grey hair looks like she just stuck her finger in an electric outlet. She is constantly asking the same questions, sampling the same products, and pointing out that we are always moving our product around to confuse her. She always likes to get the last word in. For example, she always buys the same cheese even though she says that the quality has just deteriorated. I told her not to buy it and try something else. She said that she didn't like anything else. So I asked why she would spend her money on something she considered awful. She said because it's the best. I said, "Really." She said... well, she kept talking but I walked away.
Then, there's the middle-aged not very attractive man. To be honest, he may be attractive but since he is such a cunt, we all consider him ugly. He comes in the store at 6:00pm and openly complains that we are too busy. That we let everyone in. That our shelves are always empty. That we leave empty boxes on the floor. He then runs his cart into our shelves, displays, and other customers. He openly complains about the poor quality of our products. Yet, there he is every other day, at 6:00pm, with his red ribbed tank top, and his nasty complexion.
And finally, there's the 20-something slightly-irregular girl. The obviously pampered-by-her-father one who thinks that the world should revolve around her but is quickly realizing that it does not so she tries to gain some control/power by trying to talk down to the staff about some food item she had in some obscure town in Portugal that we should carry if we know what we were doing. Isn't she just going to become the grey-haired bitch I described above?
I guess you can say that this is what makes NYC great. I guess you can. I do believe they have the right to be wherever they want. What I don't get is why they choose to live their lives this way. The City can be very stressful. But you know what, that's what the suburbs are for. Wisteria Lane is just a U-Haul away. Makes me wonder. Later.
Ahhhhh, humidity... I love it... NOT. (Wow, old school) Anyway, it's summer in NYC and what does that mean, boys and girls? Tennis! Anyone in blogland interested in some tennis? Not competitive. Just hitting the ball around. Maybe a few games. I've been playing since I was five. What I'm actually looking for is someone who can play during the week in the daytime. Must have a Parks Department Tennis pass. I can be competitive if needed. Okay, okay. I am very competitive but I can play a friendly round.
Email me at email@example.com
if interested. Later.
Since I have been tagged by Cole
(again), here is my response to his meme-tag (is that a word?):Number of books I own
: Jeez. Around 100. Between me and man, we have books. Not a ton but enough to take up a couple of bookcases, some storage bins, and various other places.Last book I bought
: Gay Haiku by Joel Derfner
. Joel is a great friend and a genius. Listen up people - A GENIUS. Run out and go get his book. It's everywhere. It's now. It's forever.Last book I read
: Gay Haiku. Hello! It was the last book I bought.Five books that mean a lot to me
: Hmmm. Tough but doable.
1. The All New Joy of Cooking
by Rombauer, Becker, & Becker. A great place to find a basic recipe. It's been a great source of inspiration and motivation.
by David Sedaris. This is the first book where I laughed, cried, thought, shared, and just basically reacted to. It may also be the first book that Mike and I shared. That maybe be a big reason.
3. Great Wine Made Simple
by Andrea Immer. It's taught me everything I need to know about wine. I always recommend it to anyone who wants to learn how to enjoy wine. Plus she and I once cooked together. She is quite the inspiration.
4. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
by Roald Dahl. This is the book that inspired the Willy Wonka movie. I have read it over and over again. And it still is entertaining. I remember it being read to me in elementary. I remember taking it out of the library afterward to read it on my own. I remember thinking that Gene Wilder was good but the kid who played Charlie was weak. I am going to see the new Tim Burton movie. This book represents childhood to me.
by Gregory Maguire. Read the book twice. Saw the musical. Maybe it's because I feel like Elphaba at times. Outcast and misunderstood. The book and musical are worlds apart but the storyline is magnetic.
Okay, there it is. I may have a couple more books that I find dear to my heart but these are the first five that popped into my head. That may mean something. I guess I have to tag someone with this meme. Of the last three people I tagged, only one responded. So I will tag Todd
again. And I will tag Hugo
(even though he didn't) and, because I think he may be one of the funniest people I have read, Brian
A while back, I was freelancing as a cook. I had secured a pretty frequent freelance gig with a kitchen that not only paid well but was also a nice place to work. It had the stress and creativity that is expected but also had a camraderie that is often missing from the testosterone-filled world of professional cooking. I was particularly proud of being part of this kitchen because I had sent my resume in without expecting much, got a job for the day, and ended up being asked back constantly. In the next two years, I was called back to work for them so often that all the staff and patrons considered me part of the team. During the time I was there, I made it clear that I wanted a position there. I did something I never do either: I would change my schedule on less than an hour's notice to work for them.
About 9 months ago, a position opened up. Nevermind that I found out about the open position via an internet job search. Nevermind that I thought that the job posting was for another company but ended up being the one I freelance for. I interviewed for the position anyway. During the interview, the chef spoke to me as if I had the position already (which caught me off-guard). So, I left the interview feeling good. Not confident, just good. Three weeks later, I still had not heard from him. I emailed him and got a response saying that no decision had been made. Two weeks more and I decide to email him one more time. I received an email saying that the position had been filled. Done.
To say that I was disappointed does not describe how I felt. I was disappointed. I also felt betrayed, used, and disposed. I emailed him back with a carefully-crafted letter asking what it was that I did not possess that took me out of the running. No answer. I was definitely disappointed. And I was mad.
Today, I am still mad but not about gettting the job. I am still mad that I had to contact him to find out that I did not get the job. I am mad that after rearranging my schedule to get them out of binds, I didn't even merit a personal phone call. This past February, I had not received my tax documents from them. I emailed him asking who to contact about this. I am mad that I did not receive any sort of email from him. I am mad about that.
I recently read an article in which he, the chef, was giving advice about teaching healthy eating to kids and adults. He was talking about how healthy eating habits are learned and learning how to make good choices is something that he believes is his goal in life. Yeah, thanks a lot Mr. 300-pounds-was-being-treated-for-three-gastrointestinal-issues-and-is-still-obese-even-though-he-has-been-warned-that-his-life-may-depend-on-it. I am sure getting advise from you about healthy eating is a good thing.
I still feel I deserve an explanation. I still feel that he betrayed my loyalty. I really still feel that he betrayed what I considered a friendship. I also found out who got the job. I know how she cooks. I know her strengths. I know her weaknesses. I wish her luck. I wish them luck. I'm not mad about that. Later.
I took my first step class in about two months yesterday. One word: sore. When did I become so old? Maybe it's the fact that we painted the bedroom after a full day of work on Sunday. Maybe it's the fact that I did not have a day off over the long weekend until today. Maybe it's because my new position at work involves more heavy lifting than usual. Maybe its the weight training I have worked into my busy schedule. Maybe it's my 35 years catching up with me. Maybe. Later.