I went out to lunch with a group of colleagues today for a going-away celebration. The one who is leaving — she’s my age and in a semi-long-term relationship with a guy that so far, has lasted eight months (I say that because she said she doesn’t know how long this will last, and their upcoming five-day trip to Iceland together may be a maker or breaker of their relationship). An Australian colleague of ours asked if she thinks he may propose during the trip. My colleague responded and said she highly doubted it and would be completely shocked. In addition, she didn’t really care to get married anytime soon.

“The greatest thing about New York City is that you can be 48 and single, and no one cares!” the Aussie exclaimed, who is around 32 or 33. “You don’t need to get married! It’s so great here!”

We talked about friends or friends’ friends of ours who have gotten married much younger, anywhere from 18-25, many of whom are already divorced but with kids. “I just got bored of those people back home (in Brisbane, Australia) and outgrew them,” my Aussie colleague said. “That’s not the life I wanted, and I never want to go back, ever.”

To contrast this, I had dinner with a good friend of mine who is 38, single, and having really terrible luck finding someone just to date regularly. “What is wrong with women?” he said to me over dinner tonight. “They are so hard to read.” This friend really wants to get married…. like, five years ago. I wish had some normal, single girlfriends to set him up with, but unfortunately, my network is too small.

The last girl he saw is now officially history. They had two seemingly strong dates, which ended with her making comments like “I had an amazing time” and “That was the greatest date ever,” which somehow transformed in a few days to “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Sometimes, I would think it would be harder to be single and female given societal norms that men have to initiate everything from the first date to the marriage proposal. But when I see my friend flailing, I feel so sad for him and don’t know what to do. He’s a great guy — ultra successful in his career, progressive and egalitarian, has many hobbies including world travel and film producing, donates and contributes personal time to charities he is passionate about. To add to that, he’s also white and pretty darn tall (as sexist as this sounds, what woman doesn’t want to be with a tall guy?). There’s my Aussie colleague on the one hand, 33, single, and loving the New York City dating scene. Then, there’s my Pittsburgh-raised male friend, 38, single, and about to swear off women forever.

Human relationships are way too complicated. Maybe arranged marriage wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

My boss is on vacation this week, which means I am taking over most of her usual tasks and responsibilities, including approving last minute paid-time-off requests from her direct reports. One of them came to me today asking me if it would be all right to take two days off next week when he originally planned to work remotely. He gave a long-winded rationale as to why he needed to take the days off instead of working remotely, and I paused for a second, thinking in my head, why is this guy coming to ask me if it’s okay? And why does he feel the need to tell me a long explanation? I don’t care what the explanation is — just take the time off!

I’m clearly a product of my generation. In my parents’ active working days, they always had a very fixed (ten days, yep) number of days off in a year, and they always had to give a reason to take time off. Working remotely was not an option then (how do you cut a client’s glass remotely, in my dad’s case?), and in my mom’s very traditional company, she could never have done her secretarial duties from home. From an intuitive perspective, we’re all adults here, so why do we feel a need to explain why we are taking time off to our employers when it’s a right to take time off? It is so strange to me, and I always feel a little strange when people who report to me feel like they need to explain every single day off. Sure, if you want to tell me you’re going away for a wedding or for an African safari for conversational purposes or because you want me to get to know what you’re up to, I understand that. But to tell me as a reason because I need to think it’s “valid” is so odd to me. Everyone knows what work they have and don’t have and how much time they have to get things done. I just don’t think managers should make their employees feel like every day off needs that level of scrutiny.

When I was little and got sick (which was pretty often, sadly), my mom and grandma would prepare a host of different things for me to eat that would soothe and nourish me that I now look at as comfort foods, which include jook, plain clear Chinese soups, hot ginger-honey-lemon “tea,” and oddly enough, chicken noodle soup. Chicken noodle soup is the all-American comfort food, the one that Campbell’s soup commercials always featured on TV. The smell and taste of it were always so satisfying when I had it, regardless of whether my dad prepared it from scratch or if it was made the short cut way via store-bought chicken broth and fresh pieces of chicken and vegetables my mom would cut up. And then all my happy thoughts surrounding this soup were destroyed when Chris called it “absolute shit.”

His hate for chicken noodle soup is not against chicken or the broth itself; he claims he doesn’t like it because it’s so “bland and boring” compared to all the other soups out there in the world. However, when you’re sick, you don’t necessarily want super spicy, complex soups or cream-laden dishes, as these may unsettle your stomach. So despite knowing he claimed to dislike it, I still went to Sable’s this morning to pick up a quart of their homemade chicken noodle soup for him. He whined and whinged about it, but after I insisted it would be good for him and he tasted it, he said he wouldn’t mind having it again the next time he might get sick.

I love changing people’s minds about food. 🙂

Chris’s cousin is in town from London this weekend, so tonight we took him to the Comedy Cellar. It never fails to be a fun night that leaves my face hurting in the end from all the laughing that we do. One of the comedians in the line up was actually Ronny Chieng, who is a correspondent from The Daily Show who I really like. He spoke a lot about his initial confusion about Asian stereotypes… since in Malaysia, where he’s from, pretty much everyone is Asian, so why would they all make fun of themselves? What really made me think for a bit after his routine was an idea that he brought up that maybe one day, there could be a Chinese American president, and then Asian kids around the world could think, hey, maybe one day, that could be me!

It was a big deal when Barack Obama became the very first (half) black president of the United States. So many people were emotional and crying when he won the election, and then again at his inauguration. And today, it’s a huge deal now that Hillary Clinton is the first female presidential candidate of a major party in the U.S.; if she wins, I can imagine myself getting emotional about it because I could potentially have children who will be raised in a world that has already seen a female president of the U.S. So they may take it for granted. But a Chinese American president of the U.S. — that’s a hard one for me to see happen in my lifetime. Yes, Asian Americans do well from a socioeconomic stand point, but to have that type of visibility is generally not one that Asian Americans as a group seek out. Who knows — maybe it could happen, but my pessimistic side doubts it. In a world post having our first black president inaugurated, the tea party came about, the political parties have been more divided than I can remember in the last 30.5 years of my life, and Black Lives Matter is coming out against all the discrimination blacks face in our society. And then there are real people who believe that Donald Trump would be a great leader and take our country to a better place. This is a candidate who got the endorsement of the American Nazi Party. I don’t think the world (or really, the U.S.) is ready for an Asian American president.

My cousin’s cousin is in town again this week from Montreal, so I’m meeting him for dinner on Wednesday night before Chris and I leave for Banff and Calgary. He was interested in eating at a certain restaurant downtown, but I immediately vetoed it when I saw the high number of reviews for the mediocre ratings on Yelp, and then the real kicker came: when I saw they only take cash or AmEx. American Express is the only option for credit cards — really? Who the hell does this place think it is?

Last week for the first time, I ate at a restaurant that only accepted credit cards. I get that — that completely makes sense given that fewer people today carry wads of cash with them, and it protects businesses from theft. But to only accept an expensive credit card like American Express is just ridiculous and unacceptable to me. There are endless restaurants in this city to try, and we’re definitely not missing out on anything by not going there.

Today, we invited two of my friends over (who are a couple) for brunch with us. I made a spread that I am quite proud of, and we ate, drank, and caught up on all things travel, moving, and house hunting related. They’re actually looking to purchase an apartment in Astoria in the next year and had just come from an open house en route to our place.

Because Chris and I have always looked at New York as a temporary home, it’s always interesting to hear about others’ desires to stay here long-term, especially in the city and not stereotypically leaving for the suburbs. I told Chris that my guy friend always said he had the desire to move to California at least short term, but long term, he didn’t feel comfortable being so far away from his parents.

“That is like the opposite of you,” Chris remarks.

“Yeah, that’s kind of true,” I responded.

These comparisons always make me hear stupid voices in my head, telling me that maybe I don’t love my parents as much as the kids who have strong desires to stay and live closer (or even WITH) their parents. I’ve been told that, either directly or indirectly, many, many times over the course of my now 12 years away from home. I think the argument is terrible, though, and I don’t just say that out of defensiveness. Kids are meant to “leave the nest” and pursue their own lives and not be dependent on their parents, whether that is emotionally, physically (eh?), or financially. Everyone’s desires and comfort levels will always be different, and maybe they change as time goes on, but I’m 100 percent comfortable being across the country from my parents. And I think they’ve gotten used to it as time has gone on. It’s really for the benefit of both sides to have space.

After almost exactly four years, Chris and I went back to have dinner at Minetta Tavern in Greenwich Village this evening. The funny thing was that although we knew the last time we were here was in August 2012, we didn’t realize that it was actually August 6, 2012, when we went, which is pretty crazy when you think about it. The place is exactly the same: the same New Yorker attitude type service (they’re polite, but not overly so, and very much to the point), the same old-school decor, and the same menu… just prices that are considerably higher than they were the last time we came. The last time we came, my friend Rebecca was here with us, and this was what we considered her last fancy “going away” meal in New York before leaving the U.S. for a temporary stint in Singapore. It’s crazy how much time has passed and how different our life circumstances are.

She’s no longer in Singapore and has moved back to San Francisco with her husband, and she’s actually coming back this September on a work trip and will be spending the weekend with us, going around the city and eating all the things she misses. It’s exciting to think of her coming back and reliving all of our food local travels through this city. She’s probably one of the only friends I have who is willing to go to almost any restaurant with me, regardless of cuisine type, price, or decor.

I’ve never considered myself a high maintenance person, but I suppose we all have our own biases about ourselves and really need to hear what other people think of us. I’ve never been the type of person to spend an hour or two doing my hair and makeup in the morning. I don’t really care about brand name bags or clothes, and in fact, I try to avoid clothes or bags with massive labels or brand names displayed on them. I don’t expect lavish gifts for birthdays, Christmases, or anniversaries. But it’s all relative, isn’t it, especially when you are comparing yourself with people around you.

Chris and his demands of floor-to-ceiling windows in our next rental in New York City make me think I’ve now married a total prima-donna, and my friend and former roommate agrees. However, she reminded me how she thought that I was high-maintenance when we were looking at rentals in our attempt to leave our Elmhurst apartment.

“How was I being high maintenance?” I asked her incredulously. “Because I actually wanted a mailbox and a working doorbell?”

She didn’t answer and laughed it off, but she’s happy not having either of those things since she lives in an apartment building now that has neither of those things.

There’s a massive New York City guide to apartment rentals that outlines all the things that tenants legally need to have. Clearly, she’s disregarded this, as have most of naive New Yorkers who move here from other parts of the country and world because they want a cheap deal. I mean, I’m the reason we got a working smoke and carbon monoxide detector in our last apartment, and a toilet that did not flood.

The older we get, the more we tend to want and expect of our living spaces. Part of this is influenced by perhaps an increase in salary (is that elitist to expect that the older you are, the more you make?), but the other part of it is just wanting to be comfortable. However, one thing remains in my case, and that is that a mailbox and working doorbell will always be on the “must have” list. If you want to call that “high maintenance,” then so be it.

There’s a guy at my gym who is just like the Joker from Batman. He has crazy messy hair that has grey and black streaks. He wears messy clothing, and he jumps rope like a mad man who has no method, no rhythm or rhyme. He has a stare that could probably burn other people’s eye sockets out, except he never makes eye contact with you or anyone; he just stares into space, in his own workout zone, intensely training for whatever it is he is strenuously working out for.

Joker has been annoying me recently because he loves to maniacally jump rope right in front of my favorite crosstrainer/elliptical. I’ve been running on treadmills for most of this week and usually do half time on one and then half time on the other, but this week, I haven’t even had the option to use the cross trainer because he’s been blocking it. He can’t even see when people are approaching him, and I’m terrified of getting slapped with his jump rope.

I told Bill, this guy I talk to at the gym, that the Joker scares me. “Did you ask him to move?” he asked me.

I hesitated. “No,” I said sheepishly.

“Yvonne, maybe you could just wave and say, ‘hey, can you please move?'” Bill said to me smiling.

I don’t really like to talk to people at the gym unless I absolutely have to. I’m hot, sweaty, have no makeup on, and I just want to do my workout, shower, and leave. Is it such a crime to just expect Joker to have common sense and do his jump rope routine far away from the machines that other clients would want to use?

Tonight, a friend and I went downtown to try a Filipino-fusion hole-in-the-wall that opened recently on Hudson Street. They have items on their menu like adobo chicken burrito, poke bowls with coconut rice, and ube ice cream. The food was really tasty and cheap, and is representative of the very recent popularity and influx of Filipino-influenced restaurants popping up all over the city.

When I was younger, I used to think “Asian fusion” was full of crap — it annoyed me that “fusion” restaurants were opening. My thought behind this was — each individual cuisine is already so good, so why try to mess it up by fusing any two or three together? I’ve changed my mind on this, though, especially if the restaurants do not claim to be authentic Chinese or “authentic” Filipino. If the food tastes good and works, why not? People of different cultures and races become friends, get married, and interact with one another, and so their cuisines would likewise do the same thing and have chances at being successful. Our opinions are always changing about everything.