How We Met

We met at a wedding. I know. It’s a cliché to meet someone at a wedding. Some even crash weddings to pick up those someones.

Not us though. Meeting a guy was, at best, on the periphery of her radar, if it was even on the screen. The bride told me there would be hardly any single girls there. So I turned my focus to enjoying Hawaii since it was my first time there.

My table at the wedding reception was the loud, drunk table. You know that table. Every wedding has one. Its guests are a raucous, rowdy bunch, roaring with alcohol. Elderly family members look over in disgust. Yup, that was us.

After a round or two of tequila shots, we crowded the bar for one more. We were all friends of the bride, so she joined us too. “How many should I get?” I asked.

A friend glanced around the group. “About seven, I think.”

I turned to the bartender and ordered seven tequila shots. As he handed me the shot glasses and I handed them over to my friends. However, there were only six of us. I was left with two shots in my hands.

That’s when I turned around and saw her. A cute smile and pretty freckles in an adorable black & white dress. And without a drink in her hands.

“Want to do a shot with us?” I asked her. I didn’t want the extra shot to go to waste. It was the polite thing to do. Plus, she was cute. “We’re doing a shot with the bride.”

“Sure,” she smiled and took the glass. I smiled back.

“To the bride!” someone shouted. We all raised our glasses and poured the burning tequila down our throats. Like liquid lava down our gullets, searing down our chests. I stifled a cough.

“Thanks,” she said as I took her empty glass.

“I’m Mike, by the way,” I told her.

“I’m Mia.”

I smiled. She smiled. And that’s how we first met.

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Asian Initiative

Ah, the good ole’ college days. Back then, I was deeply involved in a student-run community service organization called Asian Initiative. I was so involved that I was an officer during my junior and senior years.

Based in New York University, it was started as an effort to encourage volunteers to sign up as bone marrow donors. There was a shortage of donors of Asian descent. A few NYU students saw this shortage and took the initiative to start this organization.

A few years later, I joined as a member. By then, they had expanded their reach to include a nursing home program and an after-school mentor program.

The nursing home program allowed volunteers to go to a nearby nursing home that had a sizable Chinese American population. Some of the elderly residents rarely had family visits. They delighted in seeing children perhaps their grandchildrens’ age coming to see them.

We’d talk to them (those of us that spoke Chinese, at least), play chess with them, and host wonton-making dinners during Chinese festivals. Many were wheelchair bound and couldn’t partake in the wonton making, but they loved eating them for sure.

The after-school mentor program was down in Chinatown. We partnered with a grade school teacher who hosted a classroom of latchkey children. Latchkey children are children whose parents work late into the evening, leaving the children home alone. So instead of having them return home unsupervised, this program allowed them to stay at school and play games or get help with their homework.

Over time, this program became so popular with the students that some who weren’t latchkey children attended as well. We usually tried to mentor these children and help with their homework, though the majority, not surprisingly, preferred to play.

Aside from these main staples were a handful of fundraising events, most commonly bake sales. Our members would take the time to bake cupcakes and cookies to be sold to NYU students. The funds raised would go to buying wonton supplies, treats for the grade school children, or food for social events.

There was also a yearly carnival called Hunger Clean-Up to benefit the homeless that, for some unfathomable reason, always fell to our club to organize. We never really minded, though the reach was meant to be wider than just our niche of the Asian American community. It was meant to benefit the homeless of New York City.

Despite the emphasis on the Chinese American community, out of all our programs, the mentor program was the most popular. There was always a lively crowd waiting outside our designated meeting point to walk down to Chinatown. The nursing home program, sadly, wasn’t as popular. Sometimes we had to work hard to encourage volunteers to go. And usually, it was just a handful of the officers who would attend.

After spending my sophomore year with this organization, I bonded with its officers and became one of the more active members. In my junior year, I decided to run for the public relations position. If I remember correctly, I had one opponent. I won only because I was taking graphic design classes and made prettier flyers, I think. Whoever else was running was otherwise just as qualified, if not more so.

Right away, I found myself falling in love with the organization. That’s always been a trend in my life. When I’m part of a group whose mission resonates with me, I care for them deeply and work hard to make them a success.

I rallied a bunch of my non-member friends to join. I networked like crazy and reached out to other clubs. I put in a lot of time creating what I felt were snazzy and attractive flyers to entice others to join. I think I might have attended almost every event too, despite a crazy academic schedule and an on-campus part-time job.

When senior year came, the other officers encouraged me to run for president. So I did it without competition. That’s not as big an accomplishment as it sounds. A student organization president is a role with a lot of responsibilities and a high time commitment. The nature of our club attracted a lot of pre-med students trying to fill their volunteer obligations. Time wasn’t something they had in abundance. Relative to them, I had more time and thus, appeared a feasible choice for the presidency.

This experience became one of my most transformative. It taught me to be a true leader. I made just about every mistake in the book too. I tried doing everything myself. I became irritated by others who didn’t show as much passion as I had. I micromanaged others into what must have been utter frustration.

Thankfully, I had an understanding group of officers, an open mind, and, if I may say so myself, a fair bit of self-awareness. I tried to see my follies and changed as quickly as I could. Basic leadership tenants like delegation, motivation, and team building were all important lessons I had to learn.

The grand mistakes I’ve made, as well as the successes of the organization, are perhaps one of my most important lessons from college. At the time, they seemed horrifying and chaotic. I look back now in pure fondness though.

Some look back at their college days and see kegs and bongs and parties. I see Asian Initiative, the organization that I loved and truly made my college experience. Now those were the good ole’ days.

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On Patience

What happened to my patience? I used to be a really patient guy. Especially when a friend had a problem and needed a consoling ear.

I’m still patient with most things, I’ll humbly admit. Waiting in a long line at the airport? No problem. Slow cashier at the supermarket? Take your time. The dentist is behind schedule with lots of patients? That’s fine, I’ve got plenty of patience for your patients.

Have a laundry list of complaints you need to vent? Okay. Want to vent and re-vent that same list tomorrow too? Um, sure. Need to repeat the same vents all month long? OMG I’m gonna punch you in the throat.

Well, no, I’m not really. But I can’t sit still and listen like I used to anymore.

In my twenties, I used to have what I called a Jesus Syndrome. I used to believe I could and should save everyone. If anyone, friend or stranger, had a problem, I would be willing to listen and do what I could to help out.

Sometimes it meant just listening. Other times it meant offering gentle advice to nudge them in the right direction (leading a horse to water and all that). And other times, it meant driving over to their house and helping them hide the bodies.

To some friends, I was a big brother. To others, I was almost a father figure. I didn’t mind either. Personality tests have indicated that I have the temperament of a teacher or therapist, and the informal roles I’ve taken have certainly been in that vain.

But then, around my thirties, something changed. My patience levels dropped. Or perhaps it’s my tolerance levels. Whichever it was, I can no longer summon the energy I once had to sit down and listen to someone vent endlessly. It’s draining, as opposed to — if you can believe it — energizing, as it once was.

I attribute it to my mind being an empathic sponge. After having a particularly depressing conversation, I feel depressed. After a particularly angry conversation, I’m angry. And so on.

After a while, it’s worn me down. It’s enough to wear anyone down.

By nature, I’m a positive guy. I see most problems as fun challenges and opportunities. It can take quite a bit to wear me down. About thirty years worth, apparently.

I feel terrible about this. Losing patience and tolerance is frustrating. If I could wring out my empathy sponge and start anew, I would. Then I’d be able to console those that need frequent consoling again.

Or maybe it’s better this way. Maybe those that need frequent consoling can’t be saved by me. The Jesus Syndrome isn’t a healthy syndrome after all. Why should I want to perpetuate it? When I have a family, they will be the ones on which I want to lavish my energy and attention. Close friends too. But not any ole’ person. Maybe this evolution of patience and tolerance is a natural and necessary step.

Meanwhile, those that need frequent consoling would perhaps be best served by professional help. A professionally trained therapist, counselor, or psychologist.

Or, a punch in the throat.

Nah, just kidding. Go for the professional help.

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Too Much Drama for Your Mama

Do you have any friends who seem to be a lot of drama? Or have a lot of drama in their lives? Or seem to attract a lot of drama?

Sure you do. Everyone does. Drama is what makes the world go round. Everyone has some measure of drama in their lives – and if they don’t, they’ll seek it out from TV soap operas or create it with other people.

But let’s be careful here. The word “drama” is a loaded term. It means different things to different people. Let’s take a look at some of those variations.

At the basis of drama is some kind of interpersonal, social, and/or emotional conflict. Everyone has elements of conflict in their lives, either of their own doing or through outside influences. It’s as unavoidable as back problems and taxes. But that’s not what we commonly consider drama.

Drama, as we typically use the term, is meant for those exaggerated cases far above the norm. It is conflict at high volume. When it is in a story, book or television, it can be very entertaining. When it is between you and family, friends or coworkers, it can be very stressful.

Let’s look at some types of drama. A few of these overlap and hybrids do exist.

Emotional Drama

This kind of drama is characterized by seemingly unwarranted, exaggerated emotions in reaction to some event. Everyone reacts to crises differently; some are even-keeled and calm, others rabbit through panic and distress. Emotional drama is the latter variant. An emotionally dramatic person will react with extreme vigor, no matter the degree of the event. House burned down? Aaaaaaa! Spilled some milk? Aaaaaa!

Passionate Drama

The cousin of emotional drama is passionate drama, which shares some of its outward appearances. People being passionately dramatic are showing excessive emotion and using intense language to convey their reactions. The difference is that emotional drama tends to originate from an underdeveloped sense of emotional intelligence, whereas passionate drama spills from an extreme emotional bond to a particular topic. Basically, these people are sooo passionate about something that they are not able to accept beliefs that are contrary to their own. Hearing such a contrarian is simply heresy. Aaaaaaa!

Invented Drama

A more insidious form of drama is invented drama, the kind that is fabricated because the person is vindictive, or sadistic and bored. You’ll spot this variant when one person attacks another person’s sensitive spots — otherwise known as “pushing one’s buttons.” The purpose is to incite the other person; the more frustrated the other person, the more satisfaction the originator feels. Even if it’s subconscious. People who invent drama may do this in the name of passionate drama, though they are really trying to hurt you, not express outrage. Aaaaaaa!

Antisocial Drama

This type of drama is characterized by a pervasive disregard of other people’s feelings and rights. Lying, cheating, stealing, bullying, and abusing with no remorse are all symptoms. At times, they can seem almost sociopathic and narcissistic by the way they callously ignore the feelings of others and only care about themselves. Some are able to hide behind superficial charm or sexual prowess, though if you cross them, they’ll pull out their claws and antisocial drama behavior. Aaaaaaa!

Identity Drama

Someone who sees the world in strict black and white terms (no shades of gray) and has identity issues may be exhibiting borderline drama. These people may also have problems maintaining friendships and general relationships. A misalignment in the way they view life and themselves, in other words. Aaaaaaa!

Narcissistic Drama

Ever call someone a “ham” or “show-off”? That person was probably exhibiting narcissistic drama, which is typically characterized by an unhealthy load of self-love. They are the center of the world and they want everyone to know it. If you don’t, you will be assaulted by non-strop drama until you do. Aaaaaaa!

Insecure Drama

Though it is a bit of a blanket term, those that are insecure may bring with them waves of insecure drama. Such drama can be manifested by obsessive-compulsive clinginess, profuse pessimism, a constant need for reassurances from others, and frequent verbalizations of their ineptitude. The stark opposite of narcissistic drama, they suck and they want everyone to know it. Aaaaaaa!

Attracted Drama

Some people unknowingly attract drama, though a handful do it consciously. They either have such plain lives that they seek out “spice” or they tend to befriend people who exhibit one or more types of drama listed here. Their own lives may not have much drama, but encircling themselves with such friends can give them an air of drama. However, since like-minded people tend to cluster together, oftentimes a drama magnet is a dramatic person too. Aaaaaaa!

Stupid Drama

There are no such things as stupid questions… only stupid people. Ha! But seriously, some people just do stupid things that happen to trigger drama. Maybe it’s out of ignorance, maybe it’s a lack of tact, maybe it’s an underdeveloped sense of social intelligence or street smarts. Whatever the case, they’ll likely do something that places them or other people in some kind of trouble and conflict. Qualifying for stupid drama isn’t doing something goofy on occasion. A person needs to be doing really stupid things fairly often. Aaaaaaa!

Yes, there are many types of drama and dramatic people in this world. Know your drama and be wary of it. In small doses, it may be entertaining. But a constant deluge can drown you.

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The Nighttime Phone Call

Ever get a phone call from a ghost?

A friend of a friend did. True story. Here’s what happened.

She was driving alone in the evening. The sun was down and blackness surrounded her. Occasional headlights littered her view. Otherwise, the highway in front of her was as black as the sky.

It was around 10:00 PM. Her cell phone was with her. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a chance to use it before it happened.

Another car hopped the divider and charged towards her. The bright lights flooded her with its brilliant glare. She couldn’t see what was going on. She barely had any time to react.

The other car struck her head-on.

Even though she had her seat belt on, the force of the collision killed her instantly. That’s what the coroner reported later. At least she didn’t have to suffer.

The other driver was drunk. A senseless and avoidable tragedy.

Her family was alerted as soon as it happened. Their grief was horrible. Agonizing. It’s unbearable to feel the loss of a daughter.

Her friends heard about it soon thereafter. One friend couldn’t believe it. She even doubted it. How can you accept that a good friend, someone you were just talking to, is suddenly gone, forever?

Then she got the phone call.

It was her. Plain as day, her name appeared on the caller ID. See, she couldn’t be dead. She’s calling right now. The friend answered the phone.

Silence.

“Hello? Hello?” She called her friend’s name out several times. Still, no sound. Then the dial tone.

The friend dropped her phone. Icicles sliced through her spine. She shivered, even though it was a warm summer night.

The friend checked with the police later. Did someone use her phone? Maybe make the call by accident?

No, the phone was turned off and in police custody at the time of the call. It was later returned to the family. But no living person was using the phone at that time.

Was she trying to reach out to her friend one last time? What was she trying to say? Why that friend and not her family? And if that wasn’t her, who—or what—made that call?

It’s one of those mysteries we may never be able to answer in this lifetime. But perhaps, in the next life, we’ll learn the answer.

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That Chocolate Egg Doesn’t Taste Right

I thought it kind of my friend to leave those chocolate eggs in my fridge. She had needed a place to crash for a while. Since I was out of town, I offered up my place, provided she didn’t go around snooping through my porn stash or crack needles. (I kid, I kid!)

So one day, after she departed and I returned, I poked through my kitchen for something to eat. I had an attack of Mr. Munchie and his cohorts. My appetite didn’t call for anything substantial though. Just a morsel of pepperoni would have sufficed.

Then I discovered the tray of chocolate eggs in my fridge. Six in total, two columns, three rows, neatly arranged.

I pulled the tray forward. They were light brown with tiny brown specs. Looked yummy! My tummy growled. I picked one up and popped it in.

As I rolled it around in my mouth, I grabbed the milk. I always like milk with my chocolate. To me, they go together like leather and spice, summer and ice, ebony and ivory, living together in perfect harmony.

With the milk in my hand, I slowly bit down on the chocolate egg. It was hard, probably frozen from being in the fridge for so long. My mastication muscles carefully exerted strength. I squeezed tighter. Finally, the hard shell broke.

A cool, oily, viscous liquid poured into my mouth. I thought to myself, “that chocolate egg doesn’t taste right…”

I stopped in mid-bite. The liquid sloshed around, rolling under my tongue. It hit all the wrong taste centers. Especially the salty ones. The shell also crumbled into brittle bits.

My eyes suddenly popped like balloons exploding with too much oxygen.

I ran to the sink and spit out the slimy chocolate egg. Tiny chips of light brown followed a pool of clear fluid. Also, out came a bright yellow yolk.

I stared at the yolk for a moment. It floated around the bottom of my sink. Staring back up at me with equal shock.

Hacking and coughing and spitting out every drop of saliva in my mouth, I forcefully voided my cheeks of every spectacle of that awful taste. Bleeech!

I gargled water and swished it violently to and fro. My fingers scraped my tongue ’till it was a slab of tender raw beef. But still, that taste lingered, both in my mouth and in my mind.

Into the bathroom I dashed. I whipped up a slab of toothpaste and scrubbed my tongue good. The stiff bristles ripped without mercy. It hurt, but it was a necessary hurt.

After several minutes, I relaxed. The taste was gone. So were my taste buds.

Sweaty and defeated, I retreated to the phone and dialed my friend. “Um, you know those chocolate eggs you left in my fridge?”

“What chocolate eggs?” she asked. “I didn’t leave you any chocolate. I gave you some quail eggs though.”

I almost dropped the receiver. My tongue throbbed. Quail eggs. So that’s why the chocolate egg didn’t taste right.

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Fun for Twenty Bucks

Tim:

I bet you can’t eat that wad of wasabi for $10.

Me:

I bet YOU can’t for $20.

Tim:

Really? $20?

Me:

Yea. The entire thing.

Monnette:

And you have to hold it in for 10 seconds.

Elaine:

And you have to swish it around your mouth.

Tim:

Okay! You’re on! Takes wad of wasabi and puts into mouth. Swishes it around.

Elaine:

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!

Tim:

Swallows wasabi.

Me:

Let’s see. Open your mouth.

Tim:

Opens mouth. Wasabi is gone.

Monnette:

Wooo! You did it!

Tim:

Silent. Eyes start to tear. Wipes nose.

Me:

All right man! Congratulations! Hands over $20.

Tim:

Slowly puts head down on table. Still doesn’t say a word.

Elaine:

Uh, Tim?

Tim:

Head still down on table. Whimpers.

Me:

The things you’ll do for $20, Tim. Tsk tsk.

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The San Francisco Marathon

My nipples were hard. The early San Francisco air was icy. We had a few more hours before the sun would tickle the air and vibrate its electrons. Thus, my nipples were hard.

I ran around Mission and Steuart to warm up. Although everyone agrees that you should only stretch with warm muscles, no one knows if stretching before a run really helps or not. Lots of knowledgeable people argue it does, lots of knowledgeable people argue it doesn’t. So it probably comes down to personal preference. Me, I like to warm up and stretch first.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Wave 5 runners, get ready!” Scores of people crowded onto the Embarcedero like a seething mass of arms, legs, and bib numbers. Some bounced up and down to keep warm. Others stretched out on the fences. All looked bright and eager, even under the yellow street lights.

“Ready! Set! Gooo!” We took off. A trample of feet shook the pavement. The pitter patter of specialized running shoes, all measured for each individual’s feet, sounded like frantic rain. I took in a deep breath and felt the cold air circulate. It felt good.

A girl in hot pink was right in front of me. I centered in on her pony tail as it bobbed behind her head. She kept a good and steady pace, passing dozens of slower runners. I followed her pony tail to set my tempo. She wasn’t too fast or too slow. I knew I could keep up. So far, so good.

Then she tore through the crowd. What the? Show off. I got caught behind a pair of runners and took the opportunity to recuperate a bit. Then I darted around them and zoomed forward. I scanned my field of vision, but Ms. Pony Tail was nowhere to be seen.

A gaggle of runners came up behind me. They were carrying on a conversation like they were lounging around in a bar somewhere. “Did you hear what Mark did to Debbie?” “Why does she hang around with that loser?” “Oh my gosh, I know, right?” As fun and intellectually stimulating as that conversation was, I decided to let them pass.

Around mile three we rounded the Marina. Just beyond the morning fog stood the Golden Gate Bridge. “Wow, people are on the bridge already!” someone shouted. I looked up. Indeed, the marathon’s forerunners were already at the six mile mark. At this distance, they looked like ants crawling on a twig. But I knew they were blazing at a six-minute-mile pace. Damn.

To the sides there were spectators cheering us on. “Great job!” “Looking good!” “You can do it!” They were as inspiring as they were cheerful. A runner next to me shouted a word of thanks. The spectator waved back. The energy of the runners and spectators was exhilarating. Even the cowbells, which spectators used very liberally, were intoxicating.

Then my eye caught a flash of pink. Ms. Pony Tail had pulled over to the side and was walking. Ha! That’s what you get for sprinting so early in the race. She huffed and puffed her way to a water station and chugged a cup of Cytomax. I raced right by her with a grin.

The first hill hit us in the Presidio around the five mile mark. Dozens of people were walking. I slowed down to a brisk jog. The breezes were getting colder. Brrr. As I shivered, Ms. Pony Tail blazed by me. What the?? Did she get that energy from the Cytomax? Holy Jeebers.

The Golden Gate Bridge was in full view now. It was majestic, even shrouded in fog. It was also as cold as a penguin’s butt. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and blew into my fists. A gust of wind nearly toppled a runner in front of me. I grabbed onto my cap to keep it from sailing into the Bay.

My nose was leaking like an old faucet. So, of course, there were professional photographers all along the bridge who took professional photos of the snail trail dripping down my nose. Great.

A few runners jumped onto the side and whipped out their cameras. They sighed as they snapped the glorious mist around us. Runners from the earlier waves were passing us on the opposite side. Automobile traffic was relegated to the leftmost two lanes. Enthusiastic drivers honked their horns in support. Noise and bustle surrounded by serene gray. What an awesome course.

I slurped down some goo at the other side of the bridge. Mmm, good goo. As I rounded the corner and reentered the bridge, I heard someone call my name. I looked up. It was Eric, closing in on me. Damn, didn’t he start eight minutes behind me?

I sped up. The narrow lanes made for some congestion. Faster runners darted in and out like aggressive drivers. Slower runners held up traffic like granny drivers. I weaved a bit, but let the faster runners pass me. It was only fair.

It was cold on the bridge. Ice-biting cold. The kind of cold that shoves sharp icicles under your fingernails and slides into your skin. It was a little like getting a massage from a polar bear with frozen claws. I half expected my breath to materialize into snowflakes.

Half a mile after the bride, someone tapped my shoulder. “Hey Mike!” shouted Eric as he zoomed by me. Bastard. I picked up my pace, but was no match for him on the Lincoln Blvd hill. He was right in front of me as I crested the peak. With a hopeful grin, I blasted down the hill. But it was all for naught. He sped down the hill like he was rolling down it.

The last three miles were marred with more hills. My calves were on fire. The sides of the course were littered with people who had passed me earlier. Now they were walking up those hills. Eric wasn’t one of them, however.

Once outside of the Presidio, I spotted him a block ahead. Biting back the fire in my legs, I surged forward. The gap closed a little. Then we rounded a corner. “Wooo! Go Mike!” someone shouted. Startled, I twisted my head around. Colleen was walking with her bike. “Wooo!” she cheered. I waved and pushed forward.

Car traffic was stopped on either side of the course. Long lines of patient drivers sat there while the marathon cut through their neighborhood. One driver honked violently. “Hey buddy, what’s up?” asked a traffic cop.

“How am I supposed to get home?” shouted the driver. He inched his car forward.

“Hey, hey! What do you want to do, run over these people?” answered the cop. “You gotta wait.” Runners around me laughed, then sped past the intersection, just in case the driver decided he did want to run over us people.

I checked the mob in front of me. There was Eric! He seemed to be slowing down. I engaged in overdrive again and soared down the hill, trying desperately to block out the pain. Mind over matter, mind over matter. Then I reached him. And then I realized… it wasn’t Eric. Damn!

I gave up trying to find him and aimed my mind at finishing strong. When we entered Golden Gate Park, I knew the finish line for the half marathon was coming up. Runners who had already finished were lined up at the sides, cheering us on. “You’re almost there!” someone shouted. Thank goodness. My feet and hips were sore from pounding the pavement. What punishment for my joints. I wondered if I should ice them, or if the air was icy enough.

Then, finally, I spotted the finish line. The glorious finish line. Like Heaven, Nirvana, and Utopia all rolled into one. I tapped into my reserves and sprinted. It felt great. I burned down the last few meters at top speed.

Then I almost slammed into two slower runners. You could hear my heels skid as I applied the brakes. I almost smelled smoldering rubber. A third runner blocked me from a hasty pass. Rats, my momentum was gone.

As soon as the third runner broke free, I continued my sprint. I sped past the finish line to a chorus of cheers. Wooo! I did it! I finished the San Francisco half marathon!

I slowed to a walk and sauntered onto the grass. Right in front of me was Eric. Finally, I caught up to his ass. Whew. We picked up our medals, a windbreaker shield thingy, and congratulated each other.

I looked at my watch. 2:08:45. Not bad for my very first half marathon. Ever. And in just a couple of months, I’ll have my next one: the San Jose Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon. Yea! Bring it on!

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The Screen

In the recruiting process of the working world, recruiters rely on a set of questions to determine whether or not a candidate is worth an interview. This is called The Screen.

In the matchmaking process of the dating world, the same technique can apply. Say a friend wants to set you up. “She’s great!” he tells you. “You should meet her!”

Alarm bells may ring. To allay them, you should begin The Screen.

“What’s she like?” That’s the first big question. It’s an open-ended question, meant to draw out more details without adding preferential bias to the answer. A favorite technique of interviewers, it’s equally despised by interviewees. Tough titties though; open-ended questions draw out loads of great information.

The follow-up questions are equally as important. “What do you mean, ‘She likes the outdoors’? Does she like hiking & camping? Does she live in the trees? Does she raise farm animals?” Probing deeper allows you to better screen the candidate. You’ll also get a better view of your friend’s mental image of said candidate.

If your friend says, “She’s nice” without any qualification, that can sometimes be a red flag. “She’s nice” could mean: “I don’t really know her well.” Or: “She’s boring and I sure wouldn’t date her, but maybe you might.”

Or: “She’s a raving psychopath who foams at the mouth whenever she watches the movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. But since she’s single and you’re single, you both must be a great match!”

These are important details.

“What does she look like?” That’s the next big question. Looks aren’t the most important thing; an amazing personality makes a girl a lot cuter, and an awful personality makes a girl a lot uglier. But at this stage, you can afford to be a little judicious.

And admit it. You care about her looks. You don’t want to hear your friend say, “Well, whenever she’s on all fours, I can’t tell which direction she’s facing.”

“Why do you think we’d like each other?” That’s the last big question. This one tests your friend’s matchmaking abilities. Some matchmakers are awful. A rank armpit after a really long run awful. This question will help you determine if your friend is such a case.

The question also forces him to confess the intent of the set-up. Is it a She’s Single, You’re Single set-up? Is there more to it? Is he randomly throwing two birds into a cage? Or carefully selecting two beautiful robins that actually have a chance?

If there’s bullshit, you’ll hear it. “Oh, hmm, I don’t know… maybe you two wouldn’t work out so well.” Well, golly, why didn’t you say so sooner?

And even better, you may hear a deeper level of candidness. “Oh, well, she just got out of a long-term relationship and could be on the rebound. So be careful.”

Throughout The Screen, you’ll have many opportunities to fine-tune his selection criteria. That’s just as important as screening the candidate. “She really likes the Backstreet Boys. And… don’t you like that kind of stuff too…?” Smack him around after a comment like that and he’ll never make that gross mistake again.

Like seriously. Gross. Ew.

This is a very important point. Just as you want to discern your friend’s mental image of the candidate, you want to make sure his mental image of you is accurate. Good matchmakers will be more accurate, but every so often, a little fine-tuning wouldn’t hurt.

Sounds like a lot of work? Maybe. But when you meet the girl and have a successful date, you’ll be glad you have such a thorough Screen!

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Your Mr. Right is in Outer Mongolia

“Some of my female friends are so stupid.”

I laughed. “Why do you say that dude?”

He sat up in his chair. “Because some of them have such unrealistic expectations.”

I leaned forward slowly. “Oh yea? About what?”

“A lot of my female friends who are still single complain that they are, yet they’ll meet great guys and dump them because they think there are better ones out there. Or they’ll ignore other potentially great guys.”

“You know, I think a lot of girls say the same shit about guys.”

“Sure. It goes both ways. But these girls don’t really have an excuse in the Bay Area. There are so many guys here for them to choose from. And they’re all intelligent women too.”

I scratched my chin. “So what’s the problem? Are they expecting too much out of a relationship?”

“Yea. Here’s what they tell me: They believe in only one Mr. Right, that there’s only one right guy for them. But that’s so stupid.” His eyes blazed as he continued. “How can they have only one Mr. Right for each of them on a planet of billions? What if their Mr. Right is in Tennessee right now? Or Outer Mongolia? If they’re not planning on traveling to Outer Mongolia anytime soon, how realistic is it that they’ll ever meet their Mr. Right? They’re pretty much screwed.”

I laughed. “Awesome observation man. Well put.”

“Here’s the way it really is. Realistically, there are probably thousands of people who are compatible with you. You just have to be able to meet one of them.”

“Thousands, huh?” I scratched my chin again. “That’s a lot.”

“Sure, but they could be scattered throughout the country, or even the world. Thousands sounds like a lot, but on a planet of billions, thousands is tiny, statistically speaking.”

“That must depress your single female friends.”

“It does. But they have to wake up and realize this. In many cases, they’re already depressed that they’re still single. So at least be realistic about it.”

“Do you tell your friends this?”

“Sure. All the time. Also, chances are, the thousands that are compatible with you are probably in the same country, since similarity of culture is sometimes a compatibility factor.” He looked out the window. “Let’s say there are a hundred in the same city right now. It’s a big city, but they just have to find one of those hundreds. And when they find one, they should hold onto the guy, and not let go and believe there’s a better one out there.”

“This again, sounds a lot like what girls say about guys. That guys can’t make up their minds, can’t commit, and always believe there’s someone better out there.”

“These are girls with graduate degrees. They’re really smart. And driven. And good looking. They’re super smart with their work, their careers, everything. Except for when it comes to dating. When it comes to dating, they’re stupid.”

I chuckled. “So these single girls are dating around and jumping from guy to guy? What’s wrong with that?”

He shook his head. “They don’t really want to date around though. They all want to settle down and get married. But only to Mr. Right, no one else.”

“Ah, hence what you’re saying about the unrealistic expectations.”

“Exactly. See, they do meet good guys. I’ve met some of the guys they’ve dated, and they’re all good guys. The girls just don’t see it. The guys could have great chemistry with them, could fulfill lots of the things they want, but they’ll dump them in their search for Mr. Right.” He shook his head and looked down at the table. “See, the problem is, they don’t really know what they want. They think they do, but they really don’t.”

“Does anyone ever really know what they want?”

“Well, here’s what I mean. They’ve never really analyzed all the traits they want out of a guy, then considered how realistic each traits is. For example, one friend says she wants a guy who’s adventurous and spontaneous, yet very financially stable. A guy who’s very financially stable hasn’t probably taken a lot of risks in his life to get to that state, so there’s no way he’ll be as adventurous as she wants him to be. That’s just contradictory.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

“So that friend says she wants a guy who’s financially stable. Okay, that narrows down the population a bit. Then he’s also got to be a few years older and living in the area. Okay, that further filters things down. Then he’s got to be adventurous and spontaneous. While that’s contradictory, it’s not entirely impossible. She’s just narrowed down her options to a very tiny slice though. Oh yea, and he’s got to be Jewish, love to swing dance, is in the financial sector, and love dogs. Also, he’s got to be single, good-looking, and there’s got to be chemistry.” He laughed and shook his head. “Statistically speaking, she’s narrowed herself down from a possible pool of hundreds to maybe, one or two guys. Or maybe none at all!”

I laughed. “Good analysis!”

“That’s what I keep telling them, every time they complain to me. Unrealistic expectations, see. What they’re often looking for is nearly impossible.”

I sat back in my chair. “Sounds like they’re too idealistic. And romantic. I think a lot of girls, and guys, like the idea of romance. It’s romantic to think of a Mr. Right out there waiting for them. That’s probably why they don’t look at dating so analytically.”

He sighed. “Okay, they can live in their little romantic and idealistic bubbles then. But they’re just fooling themselves. For all they know, their fictional Mr. Right could be in Outer Mongolia right now. And if that’s the case,” he shrugged, “they’re pretty much screwed.”

What do you look for in a Mr. (or Mrs.) Right?

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