Sunday, May 31, 2015


I'm stuck in my apartment. Seriously, stuck. I, at the moment, am unfortunately job-challenged (my new PC term for unemployed) and I have NOTHING to do. It's awful and I just want it to be Tuesday everyday so I can leave and go to improv for 3 hours.

I can't complain about my apartment, really. I live alone in about 550 sq feet, which for a studio is pretty big.  I have a memory foam bed, a good-sized TV, a DISHWASHER - yeah, it's the life, man.  But I find myself dreaming of my apartment in Hong Kong.

When I had the glorious joy of living in Hong Kong for two months a couple of years ago, I wasn't exactly sure what my living situation would be like.  I knew I would have my own apartment, i.e. not sharing with anyone, but also knew space was at a premium and there likely wouldn't be many amenities.

Let me take you on a tour of my place. I'd take you on a visual tour, but it was so small it was literally impossible to get photographs of the apartment from any angle.  How small?  Oh, approximately 85 sq feet.  No, that's not missing a zero.  Have you ever been to Alcatraz?  Any prison?  (Am I the only damn person who tours prisons?? Is that weird??) Picture the cells.  Take the bars away and that, my friend, is approximately how big my "apartment" was.

It came with such luxurious amenities as an IKEA wardrobe with seven hangers, assuming that I would need no more than that.  Right next to the wardrobe was a tiny "desk" that fit a desk light, my 15lb laptop, and two charging phones - my iPhone, for use with the ever-present wifi around HK, and my local phone, which cost about 30 American dollars and was an exact replica of a Nokia I had in 2002.

About an inch to the right was my bed, which had drawers underneath and a mattress made of what I can only assume was granite.  If I plopped down on the bed too quickly, it actually hurt.  There was a small window whose only purpose was to provide a place for an AC unit, and in the few inches above the AC I could see that I was not only looking directly at a wall two feet in front of the window, but also one immediately to the right and  another a few feet to the left.  With all the lights from the windows and the city, I honestly was not able to tell if it was night or day, like ever.

At the foot of my bed, there was a small flat screen tv attached to the wall that played only three channels - one was news in Chinese, one was incredibly random nature programs in English and the last was 24 hour Cantonese opera.  I left it on that station a little too long when I was on muscle relaxers for my back a few weeks after I arrived, and it is like no sound you have ever heard.  Well maybe you have, but you don't want to.

The tv wall separated my bed from the bathroom, which was completely tiled, floor and walls, like a shower.  Likely because it WAS a shower, with a sink and toilet inside.  All three of those things were normal, except for the fact that there was a drain in the middle of the floor and you straight up showered over your fucking toilet.  You know your life is awesome if you store your shampoo and face wash on the top of the toilet tank and have to put your TP outside the bathroom as not to ruin it when you shower.

Complicating this further was the fact that no towels were provided.  The bed came fully made, so I didn't think to look before I showered and ended up having to towel off with the clothes I had just worn on a plane for 15 hours.  I promptly remedied that after dressing by going down the street to IKEA and picking up some $5 towels, which upon my return I realized were larger than hand towels, but not large enough to actually wrap around oneself as you tend to do post-shower.  Whatever, everything else was small.

Despite the size of the bathroom, they only put in a pedestal sink and had a small face mirror that was, get this, TOO TALL FOR ME TO SEE INTO.  Yes, this Hong Kong apartment had a mirror that a 5'5 westerner couldn't see into when I towered over most of the population by at least 4-5 inches.  That was, of course, the only mirror in the entire place.  So doing my makeup consisted of dumping all my products in the sink and standing on my tip toes to see, and doing my hair was pretty much by feel.

Oh, I forgot to mention!  I had my own (mini) fridge.  It held approximately 3 large bottles of water and two microwave meals (for use in the COMMUNITY MICROWAVE).  Above it was a small shelf with a hot-plate-like thing and a water boiler kettle, because you DEFINITELY wanted hot stuff before/after/during going outside or even thinking about going outside. That, and the instructions were in Chinese and I don't really trust myself with hot things that I DO know how to operate.

The best part was that if I got bored or hungry or needed anything at all, I could just walk outside and there it was.  Hungry?  The egg waffle man had a stand next to the apartment entrance.  Next to him you could get some sketchy noodles in a bag for 1 American dollar, which I did multiple times.  Turn the other way and BOOM you have heaven, which in Asia is known as 7/11.

7/11 in America is where you go for slurpees, lottery tickets and gunshot wounds.  7/11 in Asia is where you go to get SO MANY GLORIOUS THINGS.  Pineapple beer! Haagen Daas in weird flavors like taro and green tea but no fucking chocolate! Hello Panda! Pocky! Microwavable fried rice, noodles and dim sum! Gallons upon gallons of bottled, unsweetened oolong and jasmine tea! Hello Kitty bandaids! Pocari Sweat (Japanese Gatorade the color of soapy water, but tastes like regular Gatorade - not, fortunately, sweat)!

Across the street there was a park, there were hundreds of shops within a mile of me, fantastic Engrish hunting, Sasa - the cosmetics store of the gods... Here there's a gigantic park filled with children's soccer games and bouncy castles, a Burger King and, if I'm feeling super crazy, a Yogurtland three blocks away.  If I moved to another part of the city, I might live close to a bar or maybe a mall, but never EVERYTHING and never things that DON'T CLOSE.

The only thing I missed was having small furry animals to sleep with, and they'd likely be rather unhappy about the long flight. 

So yeah, get me the hell out of my house, PLEASE.  There's only so many times I can go to Starbucks to read or the mall to browse with no money.

Saturday, May 30, 2015


I figured I needed to get back in the swing of things, blogging at least, even though I haven't been "dating" for a while.  I did have a somewhat interesting experience that, for me, lasted 2 dates, but for him lasted 2 months.

Way back in a land before time (March), I had been perusing my "Coffee Meets Bagel" dating app - the only one I have allowed myself to look at for probably a year now because it doesn't make me want to rip out my own eyes and swallow burning oil.  It's based on your Facebook profile and your interests and friends, so often it'll find you a person with whom you have friends in common.  I approve of this.

I had spent the early part of the year binge-watching Korean dramas, so I decided "Hey, I should date a hot Asian dude!" My thought processes when dating are generally even less logical than this, so it could be worse.  I get on my app, browse the matches, and find a couple of decent looking Asian dudes who seem to be witty and able to interact socially.  One of them likes me back, so we begin chatting.

Eventually we exchange numbers and start texting, and then he makes a terrible mistake - he CALLS ME ON THE PHONE.  TO TALK.  The only thing I hate more than talking on the phone is probably being nude in public, and luckily the latter has never happened.  I try to explain my phobia to him and he brushes it off. Not cool, but our conversation wasn't terrible - no awkward silences, so I figured I'd give him another chance.  We decided to meet for drinks the next week not too far from my house.

On date day, I had just paid my credit card, and I kept checking to make sure it went through and I had money.  Luckily that afternoon my balance showed $0 and I had a full credit limit, so I thought I was good to go.  I didn't really expect to pay for anything, since it was a first date and that's pretty much never happened before, so I wasn't super worried.

The date was relatively uneventful, except that we had a couple of beers each and he kept ordering appetizers.  Like six appetizers.  I was both grateful and wary, since I was starving but also not too keen on him running up the bill that much if he planned on splitting the check - we'd talked and he knew I was, at the time, not currently employed and living off my tax refund until a job came through, so it's not like he was ignorant of my situation.  He, on the other hand, was a fully employed attorney at a decent-sized firm.  Either way, I thought I was prepared since I'd so responsibly paid my credit card.

Sure enough, when the bill came, he wanted to split the check, which irritated me.  Then the worst thing ever to happen in public on a date happened - the waitress said my card was declined.  I flipped out and re-checked my balance on my phone - yep, it was COMPLETELY PAID OFF. But the company decided to update their website but NOT TELL MY CARD IT HAD MONEY.  I was so angry I could barely hold it in. 

Not only did I look like a financially irresponsible ass, I now felt I owed it to him to go on a second date to "pay him back" by buying his meal.  No "don't worry about it, I got it" or "it's fine, I should buy the food that I ordered on a hungry whim on a first date anyway." 

The date wasn't bad so I wasn't super upset about seeing him again, but when he texted me about going to brunch and actually MENTIONED (in a joking manner, but still mentioned) that I was supposed to "take him out" I was bummed.  He suggested a place in Brentwood that I'd been before and I knew it was reasonably priced, so I was mollified for a hot second and we agreed to meet on a Saturday. 

I arrived at his apartment and he needed a few more minutes to get ready (WHAT? I'm the girl, weirdo), so he invited me in and I sat at the kitchen table and played on my phone.  Oh, and I had to fight off the advances of a gigantic bulldog puppy that hadn't been trained in any way, shape or form.  Did I mention I was wearing white pants?  I mean, it was spring, and brunch.  I had no idea I'd be wrestling a large dog before we got there.  The damn thing weighed nearly as much as I did, and the second I stopped petting him he'd jump up on me, soiling my beautiful pants and simultaneously shoving me against a wall. 

Despite the commotion, my date didn't come out to rescue me from Overzealous Dog, and looked surprised when he walked out and my pants were covered in weird streaks from his paws and slobber.  "Are you okay?" he said, and when I responded that I was fine, but I wasn't too sure my pants had survived, he dragged the giant animal into his roommate's room and shut the door.  WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST DO THAT WHEN I CAME IN?? WAS ME TRYING TO SHOVE HIM DOWN OFF MY BEAUTIFUL, NOW-DEAD PANTS NOT A SIGN FOR YOU??

Then he drops another bomb - "Oh, I changed where were going, I made reservations at *insert snooty restaurant here*"  So we went from casual brunch to a place that served bone marrow at noon.  One of those places that asks you if you'd like sparkling water or (with a judgmental frown) water from the tap.  I don't often appreciate those places anyway, but especially not with someone I've only met once before.  If you're my boyfriend and you want to take me somewhere fancy, I'm not opposed, but this just looks like you're trying too hard on a second date. Or you're making ME try too hard, since I'm paying.

He tried to order like two "small plates" (i.e. overpriced appetizers with 3 pieces of food on each) in addition to our meal, but I talked him down to one by telling him I wasn't that hungry.  Still, with an appetizer, two meals, my tap water and his solid gold bloody mary, the bill ended up being $70-something before tip.  I nearly shat my pants.  It was fucking BRUNCH for gods sake, I could've had $8 pancakes across the damn street and to tell you the truth, I was craving pancakes.  I fake-smiled and handed the waitress my (working) credit card and thought about that tank of gas I wouldn't be able to afford at the end of the month.

To be honest, I wasn't that into him regardless of the dates - we seemed well-matched at first, but our conversations got forced and it seemed clear to me by the end of the second date that there wasn't a love connection.  Hoping he felt that way too, I left and continued my life.  He, however, was not done with me yet.

Mid-week I got a text from him wanting to hang out again. Luckily I had legit plans that weekend, so I told him I wasn't available.  He tried again the next weekend.  I made something up.  He tried again THE NEXT WEEKEND.  That time I just didn't respond. Yeah I know, I should have told him I didn't want to go out again, but I fear confrontation, even in text format, and I knew I'd never have to see him again (unlike a friend of a friend or something).  This character continued to text me every weekend FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH after I ceased all contact.  And not "Where are you? Why don't you text me back?" - it was literally like "Hey stranger! What's up?"

Now I have to be careful of when I go to the gym because his office is in the same building. And shut up, yes I go to the gym.  I went Thursday.  So ha.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015


Welcome back, all. It's that time of year again - the time when I find out that there has been some unnecessary gala and lots of ugly, expensive shit has been worn and photographed.  This time it was the Met Ball, which I found out today while getting my hair salon is for the Met Museum in New York, and each "ball" has a theme based on an exhibit coming out - this year's theme was "something something China something."
So as I sit here on my couch in a neon pink hoodie, tshirt and clashing pink gym shorts, I'm going to give my opinions on how these rich people chose to present themselves in public this weekend. Ready?  Good.
Anna Wintour. She's like the queen of fashion or something and rules a kingdom where she decides whether or not you're well-dressed.  Well, Anna, I'm going to strip you of your title because of the giant Mexican paper flowers you are wearing as floaties.

Beyoncé. Yes, she's practically nude, no I don't understand it, but yes, it's awesome. Beyoncé could cover herself in strategically placed patches of horse shit and she'd still look amazing, because Beyoncé.

Presenting three of the dolls from the last room of Disney's "It's a Small World." Don't worry, they were returned to the ride shortly after the gala.

Chloe Sevigny.  You're already odd looking, but it's even worse now that it looks like your clothes are slowly slipping off your body and you don't seem to notice or care.

Whoever you are, FLATS, PANTS and a BLACK TUBE TOP? You're at the Met Ball, not McDonald's, get your shit together.

Dear Dakota Johnson - I wore a very similar dress to Las Vegas in 2011. It didn't look great then nor does it look great now. Also, where's the China?

The look on the left was brought to you from the David's Bridal sales rack.

This looks like a project for a fashion student whose only instructions were "You're getting married in 1984 and have only your grandmother's curtains and 37 minutes.  GO!"

JLo.  Generally you can pull off semi-nudity, but side-ass really isn't as becoming as side-boob. That's just too big of a hole for me to consider this a "dress."

I wore this in 2007, except it was for Halloween and called "Sexy Ninja."

Ok, we have Katy Perry.  The dress is just weird enough for the Met Ball, and the matching purse spray can is clutch (PUN INTENDED), but to go so crazy and NOT be on theme?  Not sure about this one. Maybe your invitation was for the wrong year.

I know you're having a difficult time and all, Kris Jenner, but that doesn't mean it's ok to break out your formalwear from 1986 in its entirety.

I hope, for Rhianna's sake, two things: a) that she has something on under this giant robe because she seems to be clutching it as though she doesn't, and b) she has reserved five seats for herself and her large yellow guest.

Who are you?  Why did you make your dress out of kindergarten cutouts of bodies? Why do you have a pink penis? Also please expect a letter of reprimand from the People's Republic of China for the great offense you have caused their people and history.

Um, matadors are Spanish. Your Uber driver got your destination wrong, go join the Cinco De Mayo crowds down the street at a bar.

Oh, Solange. So many things wrong here. The theme was not "Mars Attacks."  Someone forgot to cut a head-hole in your dress.  It actually may be on backward.  Also why are you standing like that?  Can you move your arms?  If so, please use them to take that dress off and set it on fire.