These Socks Don't Match

It was 7 PM, and like on most days, I was pretty ecstatic to step away from my laptop and stop myself from becoming a cross eyed office robot. It’s hard to be a professional email writer for a living (#jokes).

Also, as on most days, I ran out of the office and made an awkward mad dash for my train. I’m convinced Muni has schizophrenia, or maybe moderate-severe bipolar disorder. On good days, Muni is like Danny Tanner – reliable, caring, and I can imagine him reassuring me that I WILL get home in under an hour just in time to watch the Bachelor, as soft interludes play in the background. On other days – most days – Muni more closely resembles Danny’s alter ego and true self, Bob Saget. He’s crass, inconsiderate, smells like pot and garbage, and would leave my ass on the street any day.

And he often does.

This day wasn’t unlike any other. Anticipating a Bob Saget-esque Muni day, I forced myself on a packed L train and took a moment to celebrate my mini victory of squeezing into a minuscule standing spot right beneath a very tall man’s armpit. I had made it.

But there was a problem. I looked to my right and immediately became concerned. Tongue. LOTS of tongue. Tongue everywhere. #Lengua! is what I would have exclaimed if I happened to be at a taco truck instead of on the bus. Two 15 year olds, clad in their Invisaline retainers and clear braces, were furiously making out. Both of their tongues were inches – no, mere centimeters from my cheek – the moving, oblong, petri dishes of germs approaching my comfort threshold all too quickly. It was like I had walked into a slimy sea cucumber sword fight, and I could feel a panic attack rising.

As Muni approached Van Ness station, I finally got some room to move. Yay!. But, as I turned to move closer to the open door, I was stopped in my tracks by a homeless woman wearing a velour sweatshirt tied around her head like Erykah Badu. We made eye contact. She asked for a dollar. I said I didn’t have one. She had crazy eyes. I mumbled something inaudible while I shuffled toward the other end of the car. She held my gaze, and then laughed. Cackled, really. She pointed at me, and then cackled some more. I was creeped out, but also increasingly concerned that there was leftover guacamole on my face.

The train became packed again. My new crazy eyed friend found her way next to me on the crowded train and leaned right up against me, her entire back and hair completely superglued to my body. Awesome. Periodically, she would crane her neck around to look at me, sense my fear, and keep laughing to herself. I made awkward, pleading eyes with my fellow passengers in hopes that someone would help Not even the horndogs making out next to me batted an eye.

After a period of time elapsed that felt almost as long as watching Titanic back to back 3 times in a bikram yoga studio, we arrived at my stop. My new cackling, crazy-eyed friend turned around, pointed and laughed at me one more time, and then gave me a massive bear hug right before I elbowed my way off the bus.

And that was Tuesday.

If you really think about the concept of email, it’s crazy. You type these words onto a screen, they disappear into the AIR, and then someone on the other end of the air gets THE SAME WORDS  in a matter of seconds. I’m pretty sure David Copperfield tried to do that in one of his last Vegas shows, but failed miserably despite those sweet leather pants he was wearing. Email truly is, amazing.

I’ve spent the last 5 years in corporate America, which means that I’ve seen approximately 976 billion emails. People email for everything – and with good reason. They call it ‘keeping a paper trail.’ If email was a superhero, his slogan would probably be ‘Email: Saving Asses Since 1998.’

All this emailing has forced me think about how people sign their emails. From a single signature, I’m confident that you can infer a great deal about the signer – like whether or not he or she is secretly illiterate, has a cat fetish, or will bald prematurely. Here are a few of the most commonly used office signatures, dissected:

- Best: People who sign ‘Best’ have been beat into submission by the large corporations that they work at, and are trying to sound invested in the professional cause of the email thread while staying personally aloof. They secretly hate their jobs and have grandiose plans to quickly strangle their most annoying coworker after an all-hands meeting, but revert to suffering alone in their cubicles in a sort of robotic, quiet desperation. These people also tend to own multiple cats.

- All the best:  Not to be confused with ‘Best’ signers, individuals who sign ‘All the best’ are pretty dope people. They take the time to type ‘All the best’ – which is SIX more letters than just ‘Best.’ These people go full throttle in everything they do. They are genuinely nice, which sometimes weirds people out, because no one is really genuinely nice anymore. This special niche tends to work in life changing, meaningful jobs like non-profits that save crippled animals in Zimbabwe or fight human trafficking. They almost always have a degree from a prestigious liberal arts school and own at least a few pairs of ironic hipster glasses that do not have functioning lenses.

- Cheers: These people are effing terrifying. They are usually not British, but use ‘Cheers!’ as a strategic way to feign unnatural hyper-enthusiasm for their work. These are the schemers, the brownnosers who take credit for that sweet, animated, power point presentation you stayed up all night to build. They offer their bosses 3rd row tickets to the Giants game, *but accidentally* shove you in the elevator and then use a backhanded compliment to insult you like ‘Wow, that awesome tie makes you look less fat.’ They usually have excellent teeth.

Thanks: This group is gracious. If they belonged to a Hogwarts house, they would be Hufflepuffs. Often times, they sign ‘Thanks’ even when they’ve just done you a huge favor. The ‘Cheers’ group loves working with the Thankers, but sometimes pushes them around just because they can. But it’s OK – the Thankers are naturally zen, and thanks to a great deal of outdoor hiking and ownership of multiple Timbuktu bags and Toms shoes, are unfazed by the occasional office bullying.

Nothing: These people may just be forgetful, or are douchebags. If douchebags, they are extremely attractive with amazing bone structure that is envied by anyone who passes them on the street. They are aware that most people would roofie and take advantage of them given the chance. Sadly, instead of milking their good looks, they are distastefully aloof. They spend most of their day scoffing to themselves and asking the question, ‘Why do I work with these ugly people?’

~ <insert name>: The group that prefaces their name with a tilde are the same group that oNcE tYpEd LiKe ThIs in their teens. They value aesthetics over practicality (it’s not easy to tyPe liKe tHis), but are unaware that the tilde isn’t very pretty. When they were younger, the tilde group also used popular R&B songs like INOJ’s Love You Down as their voicemail greeting. They also carried mini backpacks and wore Nautica jackets. You know who these people are, and you may have had a crush on them if you attended a San Francisco middle school.

Which one are you?

*PS: Please keep in mind that these are snarky, unwarranted, and possibly inaccurate generalizations that I’ve observed in my short career. To be candid, I am a frequent user of ‘Best’ (and I cry myself to sleep every  night because of it).

**PPS: I don’t hate my job.

It was sometime during my freshman year in high school when I knew – I just knew – what my first “real” boyfriend would look like (major apologies to all the fake ones out there). He would be white, obviously. Tall, with slightly unkempt hair, a strong jawline and a single dimple. When stressed, I would be able to see his jaw muscle twitch and tighten in a manly, pensive way.

It would be mandatory for all of his shirts to be 1. button downs and 2. strategically unbuttoned to reveal massive pectorals, his sternum, and a long but tasteful gold chain that subtly emphasized both his masculinity and sensitivity. And there would be linen. Lots of linen, mostly in the form of pants that would lightly skim his bare feet and highlight impeccable toenail hygiene.

And of course, our love story would culminate in some sort of dramatic hostage situation involving Albanians who want to keep us apart because of some cruel twisted historical event that had something to do with one of our ancestors stealing a priceless Albanian heirloom and taking it back to the Mongolian Empire for safekeeping back in the year 1250.

And his name would be Chad. Yes, it was gonna be a great day when Chad and I starting dating.

Thanks to the era of boy bands and pop stars (shame, Britney and BSB), I picked up some of those unhealthy notions about true love and dating back in the 90s. Here are some of the songs I listened to on my Kenwood CD player circa ~1999:

1. I Was Born To Make You Happy – Britney

I don’t know how to live without your love
I was born to make you happy

‘Cause you’re the only one within my heart
I was born to make you happy
Always and forever you and me
That’s the way our life should be
I don’t know how to live without your love
I was born to make you happy

These lyrics remind me of that crazy astronaut Lisa Nowak, who drove cross country in an adult diaper with plans to *talk* (translation: bludgeon to death) to her romantic arch nemesis. Telling teenage girls brimming with estrogen to live for that tater-tot eating, geometry-challenged football jock that can’t read sounds like a pretty good idea.

2. Email My Heart – Britney, again.

It’s been hours seems like days, since you went away,
And all I do is check the screen to see if you’re ok.
You don’t answer when I phone, guess you wanna be left alone.
So I’m sending my heart, my soul, and this is what I’ll say:

[CHORUS]
I’m sorry, oh so sorry, can’t you give me one more chance to make it all up to you.
E-mail my heart and say our love will never die
and that I know you’re out there and I know that you still care.
Email me back and say our love will stay alive.
Forever, Email my heart.

Pros: This scenario is frighteningly accurate, and gives a nod to the beginning of the internet era. I can hear the screeching of the AOL dial up right now.

Cons: The only thing more pathetic than being a crazy stalker is being a crazy online stalker (man up, you weirdos). I know this because I am one. If you weren’t aware, the concept for To Catch a Predator was born the minute this song was released. Chris Hansen, you can thank Britney now.

3. I Wanna Love You Forever – Jessica Simpson

I wanna love you forever
And this is all I’m asking of you
10,000 lifetimes together
Is that so much for you to do?

I don’t know about you, but I think Jessica Simpson may be the poster child for unrealistically high expectations.

4. I Need You Tonight – Backstreet Boys

I need you tonight
I need you right now
I know deep within my heart
It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or right
I really need you tonight

Pretty sure this song is on the soundtrack for all those weird teacher-student sex scandals specials you see on TV.

5. As Long As You Love Me – Backstreet Boys

I don’t care who you are
Where you’re from
What you did
As long as you love me

This is false. What if that person’s favorite movie of all time is Gigli? This is the IMDB synopsis of Gigli: The violent story about how a criminal lesbian, a tough-guy hit-man with a heart of gold, and a retarded man came to be best friends through a hostage. Wtf.

And there we have it. 5 songs that will turn you and your impressionable offspring into blubbering, lovesick, psychopaths. If you were into 90s pop, you may be susceptible to infection – save yourselves.

Oh baby.

Herr Josef* was my German teacher and the most terrifying person I knew when I was 12. He looked normal enough, 45ish and sporty in his pleated chino shorts, but was sometimes mistaken [by me] for having tourettes when he would yell words in German that I didn’t understand. He had a smile reserved for that gleeful moment of triumph after he made a student bawl hysterically. In addition to German, he also taught social studies. And tennis.

It was a volatile trifecta of sorts.

Sometime during the 7th grade, Herr Josef became a germaphobe – a real live germaphobe in an era before antibacterial hand sanitizers. It became a class mandate for every student to have a handkerchief on his or her desk at all times. There was only one rule: if you sneezed, coughed, or breathed loudly without covering your mouth, you would die a humiliating middle schooler’s death. Sweet.

This birthed some interesting pre-class rituals, like robbery. Some kids actually stole handkerchiefs from their fathers, and they’d proudly pull some sort of plaid, snot-crusted piece of threadbare fabric from their pockets before class. A handful girls thought this would be a good excuse to go to Sanrio (that store that sells miniature Tupperware and lead pencils, and then plasters them with pictures of creepy talking animals), and they bought tissue packets with stars and bunny rabbits on them. The rest of us – the slackers – frantically ran to the bathroom minutes before class to grab a square of 1 ply toilet paper. High pitched wails of agony could occasionally be heard from the bathrooms during toilet paper shortages.

It was a rainy day, and all 30 7th graders were acting like we had forgotten to take our Ritalin. Herr Josef started the lesson by scribbling maniacally on the chalkboard. He would attack it so ferociously that it always brought back sweet memories of that the time I saw a girl clawing at another girl’s face during a mall fight. This was problematic – ferocious chalkboard writing creates chalk dust, and chalk dust makes children sneeze.

And children who sneezed without handkerchiefs faced the Wrath of Herr Josef.

On that day, poor Alvin* was the most unfortunate of students, being the only person without a handkerchief, bunny rabbit tissue, or piece of toilet paper. He was also the only kid with perpetual allergies. As if it was in slow motion, I watched as Herr Josef swiped at the board. The dust particles danced into poor Alvin’s nose, and then – ACHOO!!

Boogers sprayed everywhere, creating a massive booger shower, and the room fell silent. All of us stared at each other. First at Herr Josef, and then back at each other – it was obvious that we had all forgotten how to blink. Not unexpectedly, Herr Josef threw down his wooden pointer stick (not good) on the poor kid’s desk, screamed something about dirty cold virus infestations, and stormed out of the room. Then he stormed back in, realizing that he, not Alvin, should be in the room. He kicked Alvin out, but not before tossing a detention slip at his back.

It was frightening, but I prevailed. Herr Josef taught me a lot about confronting fears, finding inner strength, and doing what’s right in the face of adversity.

Oh wait – that was Harry Potter.

*Not really his name.

Dear Sir,

I must admit that I’ve been stalking you for about two years at a company that will remain unnamed. You know which one. I know this may come as an unwanted surprise, but it’s the truth. You are fascinating to me.

You may or may not have noticed my eyes boring into your soul as you waited for your daily Nescafe cappuccino to trickle into your mug. But I’m there. I’m always there.

Don’t panic. My only desire is to ask you just one question that has been eating away at me slowly, like that tapeworm all those kids had in the 2nd grade. It’s all-consuming. I ponder this question at least a few times daily, mostly when I’m hovering around the communal microwave like a hawk, waiting to heat up cold, congealed, dinner leftovers at lunchtime. You’re always in my line of sight at lunchtime – I see you there, faxing the latest TPS report by the giant garbage can on the 6th floor.

Tell me, good sir, where did you get those dope pirate outfits?

I know that you know what I mean. There’s that red velvet shirt with ruffles down the chest that seamlessly complements (or clashes with, I haven’t made up my mind yet) your brocade olive green vest. Then there’s the mother-of-pearl colored shirt that’s flowy, like it’s made of organza, and flutters alongside your bell-sleeved wrists. And lastly, my all time favorite – the black vest that sports a bedazzled carnation on the back – it’s a little bit Hells Angels and a little bit Jack Sparrow, but plenty of awesome.

As you read these words, I imagine that you’re pretty taken aback, and that you’re probably contemplating how quickly you can sprint to HR or file a restraining order. But I mean no harm. I admire you. Yes, I think you’re a pretty weird guy, but I admire your irreverence, and the fact that you wear whatever you freaking feel like at a company overrun with T-shirts, Teva sandals, and ill-fitting pleated slacks. Mr. Pirate Man, please don’t ever change.

See you tomorrow.

If you’ve been raised by an Asian person, you already know that Tiger Balm cures everything. I don’t care if you have a stomachache, headache, irritable bowel syndrome, a sprained ankle, or hemorrhoids, Mr. Tiger Balm is your go-to guy. Roar.

Keeping it short and simple, I’m going to tell you a story. In 1992, little Genevieve was 7, and a pretty resourceful kid. She drafted poems on old napkins (a little JK Rowling in the making, really), drew on the wall when there wasn’t any paper, and sometimes, just sometimes, thought about peeing in a water bottle if there wasn’t a bathroom around. What?

Before Skip Its and Pogs, there were posters. Remember the Scholastic Book Club? They gave posters away for free, and they were pretty cool.

Young Genevieve cherished her posters, but had no way to adhere them to the wall. “Where’s my tape?” she wondered, and quickly abandoned the thought of finding it. “Let’s see…what’s sticky?” After looking at tacks (no holes in the walls allowed!), post-its (not strong enough), and a container of calamine lotion, her eyes landed on a small, gleaming jar of Tiger Balm. Its shiny bronze cap stared enticingly at her. Tiger Balm was calling little Genevieve’s name: “Uuuuse me. I’m sticky!”

Not one to miss an opportunity, she dug a chunk of the chestnut brown goop out of the tiny jar, and smeared it on her Out of this World poster. “Wow. Just like paste!” She proceeded to do this with all 5 of her posters, first rubbing the substance on the glossy paper and then proudly sticking them to the walls. They stuck!

It was in this moment that she was more than convinced that Tiger Balm could cure anything. She also considered becoming a boyscout.

Like most good things, this delusion of grandeur and competence had to come to an end, and the posters slowly unraveled down the wall and fluttered to the floor in a slow, graceful death. Unfortunately, the Tiger Balm grease did not join the posters, but stayed on the walls for months to come. Their presence provoked a moderately painful beating for poor young Genevieve.

The End.

The only time time ever felt like it was passing at an acceptable pace was during high school. High school felt like a full 4 years – not slower, and definitely not faster. Each year was distinguished by the appropriate awkward attire of the era (Freshman year = I’m Aaliyah! Let’s wear black spandex skirts with slits up to our crotches!, Senior year = I’m in a Paparoach video! Let’s wear black eyeliner and black chokers and not wash our hair!), and felt every bit as long as its 9 months should. Elementary – middle school, on the other hand, felt agonizingly slow. How could it only be 1:15 when I’ve already gotten hit in the face during recess dodgeball, presented a book report on Johnny Tremain, and recited the first 12 chapters of Luther’s Catechism? Geez.

Quite the contrary, everything post high school has felt like I’ve perpetually been on speed, with the exception of 3 hour seminars in college or 2 hour work meetings, which actually feel like someone is ripping off each of my toenails one by one for the duration of an entire year. No matter how boring or epic my days, weeks, or months are, they all have one thing in common – they go by really fast.

I’m 26. I’ve been feeling my age ever since all of my friends started getting married, and especially when my aunts and uncles tell me that my ovaries won’t wait forever. I’m also reminded that I’m not quite a spring chicken anymore when I frequent my old stomping grounds, the clubs.

On Saturday night I got all decked out – dress (unheard of), heels (really, never happens except at weddings and funerals) and earrings (WTF). It was girls’ night out. I was ready to go. We arrived at the douchiest club in San Francisco, Manor West, and got ready to dance and fend off creepers like it was our job. We’re old pros at this, and we couldn’t wait.

But something had changed. The music was great, the dancing was still fun. But little things started bothering me that wouldn’t have a few years back. Like the bleach blonde Mexican girl who shoved me across the dance floor while me telling me to get out of her corner. Sure, I was dancing like a flailing maniac, but it’s a club. Go do Darrin’s Dance Grooves in your living room if you can’t handle it.

And then there were the guys. Fending them off usually isn’t a problem. You just grab the hands of a girlfriend and pretend you’re a lesbian, and it’s fun. But this time, it really wasn’t. I was just exhausted. I was sick of pretending to be a lesbian just to dance.

This got me thinking – what do old people do for fun? I imagine they go to wine bars where they sip oakey Cabernet with blackberry notes, or have subdued get-togethers in their large homes where everyone sits in a circle talking and laughing about things that aren’t really funny. Or they talk about their stretch marks.

I’m reaching a turning point and it’s depressing. I can’t even talk about it anymore. I’m just going to go make myself some Jello, watch QVC, and call it a night.

I had never been one with words, at least out loud. In middle school, oral book reports would render me borderline hyperventilating into a small paper bag that was hidden under my desk. The night before, I would practice for hours until I could recite my speech, strawberry red in the face and Stepford wife-robotic in under 2 minutes flat.

The art of speech sometimes escapes me still. At times, I rely mostly on wild gesticulations and non-word noises like ‘Ooooh,’ ‘Urrrgh’, and ‘Blargleschborg’. Thank god this isn’t the case with written words. Give me something to write, and it’ll be obnoxiously executed in impeccable MLA format, with thesis and transition sentences intact. Heck, I can even throw in some properly used semi colons. If you’re lucky.

My little speech problem returned a few weeks ago, when I was in the presence of a very famous young billionaire. I respect this man deeply, as he has virtually improved the quality of my life one hundred fold by giving me the ability to surreptitiously stalk my friends and foes from past and present. Let’s call him Frank.

After bragging for weeks about how I would be the one to strike up appropriately breezy, intelligent, witty banter with Frank, I had the eye of the tiger as I monitored his every move throughout the night. Finally, I saw him coming. I knew it was my moment. I had to make an (extremely platonic) move. As he walked past me, I gave him a very purposeful, firm tap on the shoulder (although some argue that it was a sloppy, open-handed slap on the forearm) I looked at him. With a quizzical expression, he did a double take at me. I got scared and ran away, obviously.

Immediately I regretted what I had done. Being so caught up in the initial tap, I hadn’t the foresight to think of what to say post tap. I hoped that like most young billionaires, his epidermis would be so hard and unfeeling from taking baths in tubs full of $1,000 bills that he wouldn’t notice the sudden hard tap from a perfect stranger.

It was not so.

Annoyed boyfriend: Go talk to Frank! He’s looking at you right now and he’s really confused.

Me: Mmmmmfffoduddeldof.

Annoyed boyfriend: That is my CEO. I’m going to get fired. Now go say something!

Me, sheepishly: OK…

I walked back up to Frank, scurrying a bit in embarrassment. A deep breathe, and then…

Me: Thank you.

Another tap for him, but this time without a doubt on the forearm. One for his girlfriend too, for good measure. Blank, empty stares into my pathetic, worthless, soul came from both of them.

Thank you? Thank you for what? For the gin and tonic I was drinking? For employing my boyfriend? For creating the detag tool so that I could disassociate myself from all unflattering photos of me online?

I wasn’t quite sure, but I can I assure you – I meant every word.

Yes, that girl is me. It all started with innocent allergy symptoms early Thanksgiving week. A few morning bouts of sneezing, a newfound addiction to Costco-brand Zyrtec. Innocuous, no? Or so I thought.

Trouble arose mid-Thanksgiving dinner. After spending all morning blow torching a prime rib and making a batch of amaretto bread pudding for my family (who apparently becomes a gang of table thumping angry zombies if they don’t get bread pudding), I was feeling pretty accomplished: Me. Genevieve Wong just pulled off coordinating an Epic Wong Thanksgiving dinner for 25+ people. It was truly a miracle, seeing as most days I can’t even manage to put on matching socks (heh heh, get it?).

But then – the sneezing became sniffling, and my nose started to run into my baked brie and bacon dish (oops, sorry Wongs). Determined to enjoy my feast, I ignored it. I was NOT getting sick. I was a healthy, 26-year-old who had just discovered her inner Martha Stewart. I could beat this.

It was not to be. I went home and promptly put on my 3 obligatory sweatshirts, giant sweatpants, and toe socks. Then, it dawned on me that it was very hard to slather Vicks vapor rub all over your body with 3 sweatshirts, sweatpants, and toe socks on.

It’s funny how something as harmless-sounding as a cold can debilitate you for days. Within hours, I was transformed from an effervescent budding hostess into a sniveling phlegm-covered monster drowning in a sea of used and unused tissues. After I went through all of my Kleenex boxes, I moved onto the stash of toilet paper. Rolls and rolls of empty cardboard cylinders inundated my room until my gray carpet was no longer visible, and they joined the Nyquil wrappers, unread magazines, and empty cups on my bedroom floor.

The brain damage started almost immediately. I, someone who secretly takes pride in the fact that I am usually too busy to watch TV, decided to watch TV. Hulu told me to watch Gossip Girl. I hadn’t been following the show, but it doesn’t take a Mensa member to figure out what’s going on: 1. Leighton Meester is really hot. And really mean. 2. Blake Lively is Leighton’s glamorous boho-chic BFF who is kind of a hussy/alcoholic but really likeable, and torn between dating Dan and Nate. 3. Taylor Momsen is eerily precocious for a 16 year old and should not wear black garters outside in the daytime. 4. Underage drinking and unprotected sex is totally ok in prep school.

I watched one episode after another, unable to stop. What would happen to Nate? Would he find out that Juliet is only dating him to sabotage Serena? Would Dan and Nate find out that Juliet and Jenny actually dressed up like Serena at the masquerade ball to pretend that Serena was kissing both of them? Can Blake Lively’s breasts get pushed up any higher? Do they defy gravity?

These are the thoughts that went through my head. For hours, and then days. I was addicted. I wanted to be a New York prep school student with Chanel and amazing hair and a Polish maid named Dorota.

Finally, the fever broke and my dreams of helping the cast of Gossip Girl meet their minority quota died with it. My IQ, however, has not recovered. But I’m not sad about it. I appreciate Gossip Girl, in all it’s hedonistic, trashy glory. The small (oh so very small) type A part of me tells me that watching it is 45 minutes of wasted time that will inevitably turn my brain into monkey barf. But the escapist in me tells me that watching the series is moderately better than trying to act it out in real life, which would fall into the terrifying/shameful/delusional category. And as mothers everywhere cringe, I’ll say it – thank you, Gossip Girl, for saving me and all teenage girls from ourselves.