This post is late. Just like my period.
But I’m not worried. So don’t worry about it.
I’ve avoided writing recently cuz all my stories are about boys. Boys come and go, but publishing stories about them creates an uncomfortable permanence. I never go back and delete anything, even if I reread it years later and think it’s stupid (but still funny). Even if my bf breaks up with me cuz his mom read my post about us getting walked in on while he’s getting a bj in the middle of his living room (true story. No regrets).
Too late. I already hit publish. It’s out there in the world. Forever.
On that note, here’s a story I meant to publish around the holidays about the last time I tried having sex to music.
Let me first say that I don’t understand how people have sex to music. It’s a terrible idea. Either the song sucks, or you’ve got to actively suppress the urge to sing along. Or it’s calming nature music and I’m relaxed and just wanna lay there and starfish or let my mind wander and imagine that I’m out in nature with the sunshine, waterfalls, and faraway chirping birdies and I’m depressed that I’m in some stranger’s nasty bed instead. HOW IS MUSIC A GOOD IDEA.
On this night, while I’m making out with this beautiful man I just met, whose roommate happened to hit it off with mine at the club, he puts on a holiday playlist. Because we’d just come from a holiday party. It’s kinda weird, but I go along with it. Cuz he’s hot and I love Christmas.
I manage to make out to Mariah Carey without mouthing the words, articles of clothing are stripped off to “White Christmas,” I struggle to keep it together during a pop rendition of “Frosty the Snowman,” but it’s just too much when holiday music from Alvin and the Chipmunks comes on his shuffle. My libido shot in the presence of pre-pubescent voices squeaking in my ear, I hastily pull on my clothes, say I have to pee, and sneak out of his apartment, never to see his gorgeous face again except for occasionally on Bumble.
I really need to get off that app.
As annoyed as I was that Alvin and the gang crashed my party, part of the reason I had to leave was because the urge to sing along in my best chipmunk voice (which is very good, btw) was so strong that I could no longer focus on the beautiful man grinding on top of me. I got into my car and immediately started belting out my best Alvin impression. And let me say, it was immensely satisfying. The build up to the release of that first squeaky note was slow but intense, leading to a wonderfully cathartic end to the night, driving back home alone in the empty streets of LA.
But that was years ago.
This year, I spent the holidays with my relatives in Asia.
They’re wild.
My dad is the youngest of 6, his 5 siblings and their spouses the parents of my 11 first cousins on his side alone, who are now mostly married themselves and have 10 children and counting between them, all aged 5 and under.
Our casual family gatherings involve 40+ people actively speaking a mix of Hakka, Taiwanese, Mandarin, and English, all conveniently mutually unintelligible.
I forget everyone’s names, but it doesn’t really matter cuz you don’t address any of your elders by name anyway. Instead of “Uncle Joe,” I refer to one of my uncles as “Husband of the second eldest sister of my father.” People all around me ask when I’m getting married. The party consists of mostly old people and babies, so there’s a good chance the person next to you will be carelessly ripping ass. It’s funny for the first 3 hours, then after that I’m overwhelmed and just wanna climb into a dark bedroom corner and hide. I pretend I’m in a bomb shelter waiting out airstrikes.
On my mom’s side my grandma asks my younger sisters to find me “a real job and a real boyfriend,” since my inept fugly ass is capable of procuring neither on my own.
After 10 days of relatives inquiring about marriage prospects, all it took when I got back to the US was my mom casually blurting out, “It’s almost Valentine’s Day!” as we passed by the greeting card aisle while grocery shopping to make me instantly fantasize about self-detonating into a million tiny pieces right there in the middle of Target, the happiest place on earth.
I have a theory that this is how terrorists are made. Yes, it’s “about politics”. But I have a hunch that terrorists are just people sick of being asked when they’re gonna get married and get real jobs.
“Stop humanizing the terrorists!”
Okay.
But in all seriousness, it’s a pass on the relationship front.
I recently read an article in Psychology Today (best birthday present ever) about the “Michelangelo effect”- the idea that your ideal partner should bring out the best in you the way a master artist chisels pulchritudinous sculptures out of a hunk of marble. Not creating anything that isn’t already there, simply highlighting the greatest attributes that already are.
That’s a tall order. And some food for thought. My relationships typically turn me from a confident, happy-go-lucky, “I don’t give a fuck about anything cuz everything is always awesome” person into someone jealous, insecure, and constantly in need of validation. In short, the worst version of myself. The Statue of David reduced to just his weiner.
But I’ve decided it’s ok for me to be avoidant on this front, if even just so I can avoid ever having to bring a boy home to meet the family.
As the oldest of 3 girls, I had to break my dad down throughout middle and high school. Forget curfews, I was rarely allowed out at all. And definitely not at any non-family gatherings where boys would be in attendance, and not before I practiced an hour of piano and finished my Chinese school homework.
9 years later, when my youngest sister is in high school, my dad- this SAME MAN- takes her to get her belly button pierced. AND PAYS FOR IT!!!
I DON’T EVEN KNOW HIM ANYMORE!!!
That’s not true. I know him well enough to know it’s gonna be super awkward when my sister brings her boyfriend home to hang out with the parents this weekend and my dad insists that they sleep in different bedrooms, cuz heaven forbid any premarital physical contact occurs under his roof.
Lololololol.
Although we’re all skilled at disaster aversion at this point.
One night, back in high school, my dad caught my sister making out with her then-boyfriend, a white dude, we’ll call him Mark, in the basement. Infuriated is an understatement. He yelled at Mark to get out of his house and proclaimed that he was never allowed on his property again.
Of course, this doesn’t deter anyone.
A few months later, Mark’s over hanging out with my sister, as usual. I’m doing homework in the kitchen. My dad comes home from work early.
SHIT! We hear the garage door close, we have 3.5 seconds before he walks in through the garage- that’s not enough time to hide someone or slip them down the stairs through the walk-out basement, the trusty, no-fail escape route for boys we sneak into the house. WHAT DO WE DO???!!
I witness these next moments in slo-mo.
My dad opens up the door and enters the house.
He sees my sister and Mark together in the living room.
He has a confused look on his face. Is it a grimace? Is he internally preparing for all out warfare?
I hold my breath and anticipate bloodshed.
My sister looks up at him. She smiles, and pulls the most genius stunt I’ve ever personally witnessed to date:
“Hi, Dad! This is my friend Doug.”
There’s a silent pause that seems to drag on for 20 minutes.
Finally-
Dad: (friendly smile) Hi, Doug!
And walks into his study to put away his briefcase.
And just like that, my sister is my hero. Also, this story proves that all white guys look the same.
Speaking of old flames, most of my exes are now engaged, married, or seriously dating someone. My friends avoid bringing up my exes’ relationships in front of me, but I’ve never understood why. First of all, after about 2 years it honestly feels like we never dated at all. You’re amazing, I’m amazing, we’re not amazing for each other, and that’s perfectly amazing.
And why would I not want to hear about my exes’ new ladies?!! 1) Other peoples’ love lives are a source of endless excitement and fascination for anyone who doesn’t have one themself, and 2) My exes have already demonstrated through their dating history that they have excellent taste in women.
Fuck yea I wanna know everything! Spill.
In exactly one week I’ll be curled up on the couch in my fuzzy bathrobe with a cozy blanket watching the Big Mouth Valentine’s Day special on Netflix and eating carbs. I can’t wait. Wishing you all lots of love, happiness, and exciting random sexcapades! Don’t forget to turn off the music.
No Money Mo Problems 