In Response to the "War" on Christmas

Dear You:
From me ("the wishor") to you ("the wishee"), please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, politically correct, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

We wish you a financially successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting you are bound by these terms that: This greeting is subject to further clarification or withdrawal.
1.This greeting is freely transferable provided that no alteration shall be made to the original greeting and that the proprietary rights of the wishor are acknowledged.
2.This greeting implies no promise by the wishor to actually implement the inferences contained in this correspondence.
3.This greeting may not be enforceable in certain jurisdictions and/or the restrictions herein may not be binding upon certain wishees in certain geographical locations.
4.This greeting is warranted to perform as reasonably as may be expected within the usual application of good tidings, for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first.
5.The wishor warrants this greeting only for the limited replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wishor.

Holiday Letter

To the Striking New York City MTA Workers,

Get your sorry, lawbreaking, fucking asses to work. NOW!!!!!! Or I'll shove coal up all of your noses on Christmas.

May your Christmas trees catch on fire and your presents melt for your part in ruining so many others' season, including tourists who may be here on a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

At first, I was in favor of a compromise, but now, I hope you get nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. And wait until you go back to work and see how people will treat you.

If I see one more elderly blind man attempting to walk from the Bronx to his job in Midtown Manhattan, in twenty degrees, I will personally strap on a dildo and make you cry for your mommies.

Happy Holidays.
My Life is God's Comic Strip

If I Was in Charge of Pushing the Secret Red Button....

Um, so the new Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has said some (utterly insane) inflammatory things lately. His comments about relocating Israel to (Mars) Europe and how the Holocaust was a myth have caused some (people to think to he's a blithering idiot) concern.

But now, NOW, he has gone too far. He has decreed that the poor citizenry of Iran (that voted him into power) can no longer listen to Western music, to the ballads of George Michael, Eric Clapton, and even Kenny G. (*gasp*).

I think the population of Iran (being the pack of psychotic, religious, terrorist supporting zealots) doesn't deserve to listen to the likes of George Michael and Eric Clapton. Western music is too good for them. They DO deserve to listen to Kenny G. though. Actually, Kenny G. should be blasted at the highest frequency man can tolerate before his head explodes off his neck like the Aak-Aak-Aaking aliens on Mars Attacks. (It might actually be ok if their heads exploded off their necks now that I think about it.) Kenny G. should be played on every radio station and every television channel, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, nonstop.

The Iranian people deserve to listen to Kenny G. They deserve it because they're a bunch of hypocrites that wear Parisian couture micro-mini's under their long black cloaks, and attend mixed sex parties where the alcohol flows like the waters of Niagara Falls and the drugs and sex are rampant among the young. I know this because I have friends who go to Iran, and come back boasting about how much fun it is, how great the skiing is, and how hot the girls are... (and also because I'm half Iranian - but 100% Jewish).

Yet it's a country that votes an imbecile into office, and the majority of the population, under 30, complains that the Theocracy (that they help keep in power) is not the regime they want to live under.

I say we help the Iranians's fight for their right to listen to Kenny G. I mean, they fought 27 years ago to overthrow a government they hated and installed a government they claim they really really really hate (even though they don't do anything about it and actually help perpetuate their misery) by electing an inexperienced buffoon who says things that are DUMBER THAN THE THINGS THAT COME OUT OF PRESIDENT BUSH'S MOUTH. IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE. So at the very least, they should be allowed to enjoy the sweet sweet tunes of Kenny G.

The One Year Anniversary of My 29th Birthday

Today I am 30, and a dear friend sent me this:

As a senior member of Thirtyhood, I proudly welcome you as a new member to our exclusive club. Sandwiched between Twentyhood and Fortyhood, Thirtyhood holds its own in the battle of the hoods. It is that time when you truly come to embrace adulthood, and let go of childhood once and for all. It is that special time when the realization sets in that you are not a kid any more (at least not a crazy, irresponsible twenty-year-old). Soon you will begin to take on new responsibilities, slowly start to lose touch with the latest trends, and wonder how those kids can listen to whatever that stuff is that they play on the radio these days. Yes, let's face, the second after you turn 30, you become closer to 40 than 20. With that comes an attitude adjustment. And therein lies the beauty of Thirtyhood - while it's not quite as good as Twentyhood, it's still better than Fortyhood. A semi-mature hood. Happy birthday.

Terms of Art

Buyer's Remorse: When someone gives you their phone number or sets up a date and then doesn't answer calls or breaks the date. They regret ever laying eyes on you and wonder what the hell they were thinking.

We're Just Friends: A term of art used by men and women (mostly men) describing someone they used to date but no longer date but would like to continue sleeping with but cannot tell that to the person they are currently sleeping with and therefore need to keep the former paramour around "just in case" while at the same time attempting to make the current paramour feel secure on an illusory level. See also "Recycling."

Recycling: When former members of a couple have sex after the relationship has terminated. The prelude to Recycling is "We're Just Friends."

Friends With Benefits: a situation where a man and woman claim to be "friends" when in reality one of them is in love with the other, but since one member of the friendship doesn't want to get into a relationship, the one in love, in desperation to have whatever contact they can with their love, will agree to sleep with them with no strings attached, even though deep down inside, they miserably yearn for love they have no chance of getting because they've already given up all dignity with this ridiculous farce.

Fuck Buddies: See "Friends With Benefits."

I Just Got Out of a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man physically and/or morally repugnant and does not want to go out with him.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I Need to Concentrate on My Career: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man so physically and/or morally repugnant that she would rather work as a diver at a sewage depot than go out with the man she is talking to.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I'm Not Ready for a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a blatant lie straight from the Gates of Hell told by a woman who so desperately wants to get away from the man she's talking to that she'll say just about anything, no matter how utterly preposterous she sounds.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

Just because my number is on the bathroom wall, doesn't mean you should actually use it

Avoidance is the number one rejection tool used in New York. That, and prevarication.

Gentlemen, if you find yourselves in a social situation and meet a woman who is very clearly drinking and/or utterly out of her mind drunk, please understand that there are a number of factors contributing to why she is talking to you, and you being a stud is probably not one of them - contrary to what your ego is telling you. If she gives you her number, that doesn't mean she definitely wants to see you again. It could just mean that she's really drunk, and in order to get you to go away, she'll give you her number in deference to your considerable size and the fact that her friends, those good-for-nothing non-cockblocking when you need them fuckwads, have disappeared for the time being.

The number one factor clouding her ability to have coherent thought and/or judgment is alcohol. NEVER trust a woman who has been drinking. Especially if you are a decent type of guy looking for something more than a one night stand. (If you like her and want to take it further, get her number, and talk to her during daylight, sober hours and gauge her reaction to you then.)

The second factor, directly related to the alcohol, is her horniness level. Sometimes, women who have been drinking become a bit more randy and free with their affections, and are looking for someone to satiate their temporary lust. Fooling around with you in a dark corner of a bar or club does not mean she wants to see you again, and it doesn't mean she necessarily wants to go home with you. ( If she does, good for you.) Otherwise, telling her that you're going to drop her at the train station, when in reality you told the cab driver to go to your apartment IS NOT THE PROPER WAY TO SEDUCE HER. SHE SHOULD NOT BE SCREAMING AT THE CAB DRIVER BECAUSE YOU ARE 45 BLOCKS PAST THE LOCATION YOU TOLD HER YOU WOULD TAKE HER. Getting laid in New York should not involve kidnaping. Really.

And so, if you take her number after you've met her and call her, please do not be surprised if she rejects you. Women, like men, do and say a lot of things they don't mean when they're drinking heavily.

If you call her office, THREE TIMES in SEVEN MINUTES, and then her cell phone, and she doesn't pick up, and you don't leave a message, she's probably looking at her caller ID, surrounded by her friends in the office, laughing at you.

If she breaks the date you made with her, and comes up with a lame excuse, she probably doesn't want to see you and is trying to let you down gently.

If she hems and haws when you ask about her availability to reschedule, she probably doesn't want to see you but doesn't want to actually have to tell you.

If she says she'll send you an email with her schedule and never does, that means she's NOT AVAILABLE TO SEE YOU. EVER.

If you persist in calling her and emailing her even though you get no response, please do not be surprised if she changes her number or a restraining order is taken against you.

Avoidance is what we do when we don't have the balls to tell you we're just not interested. And we expect that you'll get the hint, and have some pride, and STOP CALLING. FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Conversations of Yore

So how was your holiday? Did you enjoy Christmas?

I don't celebrate Christmas, I'm Jewish.

What do you mean?

I mean I'm Jewish. We don't believe in Jesus.

Oh really? So who do you guys worship?

Barbara Streisand.

Do you know what it's like to ride the New York City subway during morning rush hour? Do you?! Huh? HUH?!?! I didn't think so.

Well, let me enlighten you. About 100 people shuffle like cattle into a car and stand silently, making sure no unnecessary body or eye contact occurs.

People either read their papers, listen to their iPods, or try not to fall asleep standing up. The ONLY noise is the occasional rustle of paper as someone turns a page of the Times or the ding of the doors as they open and close at a stop.

So you can imagine my shock, my surprise, my utter astonishment when the woman standing next to me had the temerity, the audacity, the...the....CHUTZPAH! to actually start whistling in the Sacred Silence of the morning commute. Whistling a happy little ditty, with rhythm! And a decipherable tune!!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!!? I looked around, stunned, expecting everything to turn black and white and freeze while a man in the corner of the car looks into a camera and says, "MLIGCS doesn't realize it yet, but she has just entered....the Twilight Zone...." doodoo, doodoo....doodoo, doodoo......

I wanted to punch her in the fucking mouth. What are you, a miscreant Dwarf? Does this look like the train to Disney Land?!?! We do not whistle while we work. We DO NOT WHISTLE ON OUR WAY TO WORK. WE DO NOT WHISTLE IN THE SACRED SILENCE. The Silence, it is Sacred. To be Revered and Respected. We do not defile its sanctity with happy little tunes, with little ditties of joy and joie de vivre. There is NO JOIE DE VIVRE ON THE MORNING COMMUTE. There is only the Sacredness of the Silence. Consider yourself warned.

And My Last Name Sounds NOTHING Like Griswald

When one goes to Europe to see one's European lover, one takes certain steps to make sure one is well prepared for the experience. These steps include anything and everything from shopping for appropriate bags, shoes, and clothes (euphemism for buying as much lingerie as you can pack without Customs wondering whether you're a prostitute), to taking beauty steps that begin weeks in advance, like dieting down to a size two, facials, deep hair conditioning treatments, and certainly, lets not forget the wonderful and fulfilling nether-region laser hair removal experience.

This is all done because one pictures oneself walking through quaint cobblestone streets full of fashionistas, with their cool, crisp European look, sipping coffee in a trendy cafe, going site seeing at marvels of history, partying in amazing clubs full of models until the wee hours of the morning, and dining on delicious and exotic fare in restaurants where everyone greets each other with double-cheeked air kisses.

One does not anticipate that one's lover will call her on the day of her departure to inform her, after she's already divested herself of her luggage in her baby sister's car the prior evening in order to work half a day and then run to the airport, that the temperature will actually drop 15 to 20 degrees lower than what he told her while she was packing lightweight spring and fall clothes.

One does not anticipate that on one's second day, after spending one's first evening meeting one's European lover's brother, cousins, closest friends and drinking approximately half a bottle of whiskey and dancing on furniture, that one would get so violently ill, that one was actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that it would rain, RAIN, for seven of the nine days one was there.

One does not anticipate when one's European lover tells her that he got tickets to a great soccer game in a famous stadium, that not only would the team lose in the last seconds of the game, but that the rain would turn into a monsoon, soaking one's four layers all the way through to her bones and again making her actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that the European lover's mother would get ill and have to be hospitalized, and one's European lover would have to spend two days running back and forth between the hospital and his parent's house while one sat in the European lover's apartment waiting for him. (Of course, one DOES correctly anticipate that the minute one returns home, the European lover's mother also miraculously recovers and returns home......)

One does not anticipate that the food, purported to be oh-so-finger-lickin-good, would actually not cooperate with one's digestive system thereby making eating a very dangerous activity.

One does not anticipate that the boiler runs out of hot water, just before one is finished rinsing the conditioner out of one's hair. EVERY TIME ONE SHOWERS.

But then again, one also does not anticipate the amounts of sex one can have when one is trapped in an apartment with a hot blooded European lover because of the inclement weather.

And that's when one realizes that Europeans really do know how to live.

Working for Satan

Okay, it's not bad enough that associates walk around pushing their I.V. drips of coffee all day, coming in various, single-serve, flavors like "OK, I'm Awake Now," "Good Morning! How Can I Be Your Slave Today?" and "HiI'mReadyToGetToWorkRighNow, YayILoveBeingALawyerFor
TheEvilEmpire, WooHooGoLegalResearch," but today, I've seen the end as I know it.

A new vending machine was just installed on my floor. And along with dispensing the usual sundry items such as Coke, Sprite, and Snapple, the machine actually vends RED BULL. Yes, you read that right. My firm has taken it upon itself to provide its employees with the caffeine equivalent of crack. Because sometimes you need an extra little kick, to work past your usual 9 p.m.

I'm going to buy a bottle of Kettle One, and keep it in my desk. If I'm working after 9, I'm not ordering a Red Bull, I'm ordering a Red Bull vodka, and maybe having a party on the head partner's couch with the hot maintenance guy.

Fuck Sandra Day O'Connor, I Want to be Betty Crocker

That's it. Someone give me the check. I'm officially TIRED of working and have decided that I want to be a rich housewife. I really do. No joke.

I've been working since I was 14. Everything from a factory line (yes, I wore a hair net. Oh sod-off, I needed the money) to busing tables, waitressing, hostessing, telemarketing, receptionist, real estate agent, working in a law library and working in a collection agency, all before I even graduated from college.

And now, NOW, I'm a lawyer. Um, no thanks. People say, "What the hell is the matter with you? You have a great job, make lots of money, you have a degree, totally self-sufficient, and you're bitching?" The answer to that, dear readers, is YES. YES, I'm bitching.

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but just about ANYONE can become a lawyer. I actually saw an orangutan in court last week making oral argument.

And, I don't want to account for every six minutes of my day anymore, because that's what lawyers have to do. We bill our time in 1/10 increments of an hour. All day. Until we reach a minimum of 8 hours. Please, even the orangutan hates that.

Yes I'm ready to give up working with Mr. Keeps Calling Me To His Office For No Reason Other Than To Check Out My Ass In My Pencil Skirt As I Walk Out Even Though He Could Have Just Called Me Or Emailed Me What He Wanted To Say But Instead Decided To Make Me Go To Him Because He's a Perv Partner With An Ego Problem And A Small Penis Who Is Eating Away At My Six Minute Intervals of Billing Time To Have Tug-Vault Material For When He Has To Bang His Fat, Pampered Wife In The Ass Tonight.

I want someone else to worry about the mortgage payments. I'll worry about the cooking and cleaning. I want to wake up in the morning, make a cup of coffee, watch the news and read the paper. In an ugly bathrobe. Ok, the bathrobe doesn't have to be ugly, but really, I'm not picky. Maybe take Italian lessons, read some books that don't use words like, heretofore, aforementioned, party of the first part and party of the second part, and party of the part that makes me want to kill all the parties involved.

I know the feminists will be all, "women's rights," and "equal pay for equal work" and "hey someone give me a lighter so I can burn this bra" (you're not burning my $40 Victoria's Secret bra, bitch), but I don't care. I'm tired of working like a man.

So yeah, I'm ready to give up the glam life of 14 hour days, crowded subways, miserable people, paper pushing, and "fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, that's six minutes, phew," for the exciting world of being a housewife. Or even a waitress on some island. I'll wear flip-flops and serve drinks from a hut all day. I don't care. As long as I don't have to trudge to the office. Who's in? First round is on me.

Things That Make Me Wish I Was Blind

To the young, pretty woman on the subway this morning wearing the pastel yellow knee length wool coat, with the baby pink button-down blouse, light grey trousers, black (square toe?!) shoes, brown leather bag with brown, orange and (matching) pastel yellow plaid wool accent:

I know what you're trying to do, you thought, "Hey, if I wear this atrocious pastel yellow coat, people will notice me, especially in the sallow, blinking lights on the subway. And Prince Charming will be able to pick me out of a crowd, because I'll look so pretty and innocent in pink, and yellow, and light grey, and black and brown and orange. They'll never know the voices told me to wear this, I'll get all the credit...." Um, NO, it's not Easter, put the pastel down and step away from it with your hands up.

Just in case you didn't realize that you're in NEW YORK, in the middle of NOVEMBER, the weather for today, as anyone in even a vegetative state can tell by.....locking into satellite? Nooooo. Calling the national weather bureau? Hhhmm, noooo. Oh yeah, by LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW, is overcast and RAINY, at a cool 55 (you might need the news for that one...).

Bright mismatched pastel colors are inappropriate today. They are actually inappropriate ANY day on ANYONE who can dress themselves and does not suffer from a dire case of color blindness and deranged insanity.

Please, take that yellow coat back to whence it came, (if you can get back into the Gates of Hell) and give the salesgirl that lied to you and told you it looked great on you, a sound thrashing. You might even threaten to bury her in it if she ever sells another one. Just for good measure. God's speed.

No Pain, No Gain

Short of having a sexually transmitted disease or some kind of crazy, rub-fest sex, BLISTERS should NOT appear "down there".....unless of course, you're me, and you're getting nether-region-laser hair removal.

I have only one word to describe the experience: Holy Mother of God OUCH!!!!! Yaowzers! It hurt in ways I couldn't belieeeeeve. AND, they even applied a numbing cream, which numbed areas that I prefer to have feeling, but DIDN'T numb the crucial areas I would have really appreciated.

And the best BEST part, is that my dermatologist is a fresh-faced, sweet, Jewish doctor who looks like he's 23 (clearly he's not....but seriously, he's so young). Who's RELIGIOUS. And wears a YARMULKA. If I wasn't sure I was already going to hell (going to hell is almost redundant at this point), I'd be worried that sitting spread eagle getting cosmetic work done "down there" by a young, religious Jewish doctor would guarantee me a spot. If my mother ever found out, I have a feeling I'd be arriving at my hot-climate destination just a wee bit earlier than originally scheduled.

But, I'm fine now. The blisters are gone. And, so is the hair. The laser works, oh yes it does. And I'm going back in a month and a half, to do it again. And again, and again. The results are worth it. I'll take 15 minutes of excruciating pain once every couple of months, if, at the end of the recommended four or five treatments, I'll never have to go back AND I'll never have to flash my waxing lady.

I'll be posting before-and-after pictures to document the progress. No. Not really.

Mini-Me, Stop Humping the Laser!

Laser hair removal is something that is making me very excited. I have an appointment for Friday morning, and I'll be laser-ing an area that might make my waxing lady a thing of the past. At the very least, it will change the nature of our relationship to something a lot less intimate. This of course, is just in time for my trip to Europe next week, to see my European lovah.

I figure, if I'm willing to put my ankle behind my ear for a woman to put hot wax on my nether-regions, flashing a board-certified dermatologist isn't any worse. I mean, I've flashed my fair share of doctors in New York, at least this time, I might actually benefit from it.

I told my girlfriends I was going on Friday, and they're all jealous. The only thing I have to decide is what I want to leave behind, because I'm not sure if 12 year-old bare is the way to go. I was thinking maybe my first initial, or an arrow pointing down. I heard that if you have nothing left down there, guys consider you to be a professional. I'm certainly no professional, but I wonder if I really want to bother with the landing strip, or the stamp-sized square. I mean, fashion comes and goes, who's to say these things will last.

Fifteen years ago, it was ok to be au-naturale down there, look at porn movies. (I understand that some grooming is always necessary, but not like today's standards). In the past few years, I've found that anything down there is considered unacceptable.

If current trends persist, and men continue to react with total aversion to hair on a woman's body, pretty soon, we won't even have eyebrows anymore. But that's what the laser is for.

I have a feeling a really kinky man invented the laser hair removal machine. And may god bless him.

The Bachelor Party Rears Its Ugly Head Into Yet Another Relationship That Was Going Well

It was a sneak-attack bachelor party. "I'm going away for a female friends' wedding, I'll only be gone for three days...." turns into, "Hey baby, what's up?! I just called to say hello, but I gotta run! Going out with the Groom and a bunch of guys right now! Yeah, its the bachelor party! (guys' loud, excited, somewhat drunk voices in the background, calling out to each other) There'll be lots of drinking! But no funny stuff, the groom is not that kind of guy."

On the inside: The groom is not what kind of guy? The kind of guy that likes to go out and drink? Not the kind of guy that enjoys sex? Not the kind of guy that's attracted to women? Not the kind of guy that's out for his last hoorah? Oh, so the groom is either GAY or a EUNUCH. OR, more appropriately, you think I'm a MORON.

Lurid images floated through my head of things good friends have told me, have warned me about that go on at bachelor parties. Wonderful fathers and loving husbands turn into maniacs, boyfriends and fiances wouldn't recognize their partners if she's the one that jumped out of the cake and into their laps (or was the girl shooting hard-boiled eggs out of her...well, you get the picture). Unless the bachelor party involves a day of golf, camping, or sequestering on a fishing boat, I was warned NOT to trust anything I heard, and to be very very wary.

This is the sort of situation that makes me want to go out and have sex with someone else. Get-back-at-him-for-going-to-a-sneak-attack-bachelor-party-and-doing-god-knows-what-sex.

Yes, yes, very small minded and petty. But please PLEASE spare me the whole trust speech. That's crap. And you know it. Put a man in any situation where he can't get caught and the object of the evening is to get drunk, whoop it up, and have a last hoorah as a single man, and booze, women, illicit behavior, and penetration of some sort will take place. Especially in a place where prostitution is legal, and they have a very casual, Amsterdam-type attitude towards it.

He heard the surprise in my voice (um, maybe because it was the sneak-attack bachelor party!?), and told me to call him every five minutes if I wanted to, you know, just to prove to me that he's trustworthy. Of course, I couldn't let him see how much this bothered me, so I laughed, and told him to go out and have a great time with the boys. I told him of course I'm not going to call because I don't want to interrupt him while he's out, and that if in the next few days, he has a minute in between the wedding festivities, to give me a call if he wants to chat.

And then I hung up, and went through a mental roster of men that would be available for a night out, you know, drinking, whooping it up, maybe a last hoorah. And quickly discarded the idea because I know I wouldn't have the guts to do anything, even if I wanted to.

I hate this about myself. I hate that something like a sneak-attack bachelor party can make me suddenly feel like the ground disappeared from under my feet. I don't understand the weakness, the insecurity, I don't know where it comes from, or why it's so overwhelming. I hate that he could hear the surprise and fear in my voice, even when I tried to cover it up. And I hate that he offered for me to call him "every five minutes" because it made me feel humiliated and small and patronized. "Aawww, don't wowy wittle girw, you pathetic little insecure girl, if it'll make your booboo hurt less, you can call me whenever you want..." Like he's taking pity on me even though a rational mind understands that he's just trying to alleviate my concerns by making himself available to me.

So now I have to make an adult decision: Do I act like a normal person and just let this go? Or do I act like a neurotic wack-job, and become withdrawn, and play the passive-aggressive get-both-of-you-nowhere-fast, shoulder-shrug, nothing's-wrong game?

I think I will attempt (I said attempt, I can't make any promises) to behave like an adult, and keep the passive-aggressive, nothing's-wrong shtick to a minimum.

Maybe behaving like an adult will enable me to actually have the semblance of an adult-ish relationship. That, and letting go of the woobie.

So what are we going to do today, Brain? Same thing we do everyday, Pinky. Plan to take over the world.

At what age is it no longer appropriate to go out with co-workers, get blindingly drunk, fall asleep on the train and miss your stop, wake up and stumble outside, find a cab, slobber your way up the steps to your apartment, strip naked in the doorway, trip over your clothes on the way to the bathroom, puke up things you ate last Tuesday, pass out naked on your bed, and wake up holding your keys and your pocketbook as if you were about to leave for the day.

Thirty you say?

Oh good.

Conversation by College JUNIORS, Yes, I said COLLEGE Juniors. Sober. And No, They're Not High Either.

"Hey, do the 15-trick again!"

"What 15-trick?"

"The one you did the other day. You know. Where you divided 45 by 15."

"45 divided by 15 is 3."

"Yeah...Wow. You're so smart."

"Oh my god."

This is the point when parents should consider selling their children into slave labor. The future of America might depend on it. And I have a feeling Darwin would approve.

Definitions

Boozerholic

adj. - a person who drinks large quantities of alcohol to the point of humiliation, without feeling remorse about it the next day.

Boozerholicism

n. - basing personal religion on the mistaken belief that worshipping alcohol in all its glory will save you from the misery that is the life you've created for yourself.

Crapolicism

n. - basing a world dominating religion on the bastard child of a horny Jewish middle eastern woman from ancient times, who subscribes to the adage, "the bigger the lie, the more convincing it is."

• ex: "I can't believe I had premarital sex and got pregnant! My parents are going to kill me......I know! I'll say God did it!"

Shoulder-Shrug OK

adj. - the reaction you have when your friends ask you about the guy you're dating, but aren't that excited about.

• ex.: "Hey, MLIGCS, how's that guy you're dating?"
  *Shoulder-shrug* "He's OK I guess."

Birthday Ode to My Not-Such-a-Baby Baby Sister

The news of your impending arrival made me realize that our parents were still having sex. Ew.
When you were born, I became the designated babysitter for you.
This situation blew.

There was actually a time, you were shorter than me.
Over the years, this has ceased to be.
Now, I have to look up in order to see.
This has invoked some jealousy.

You used to be a total pain.
From trying to kill you, I would have to refrain.
And you may have something to do with the fact that I'm no longer sane.

But having you in my life has been only a boon.
You are the one who calls me all day starting at noon.
Because of the laughter you invoke, everyone here thinks I'm a loon.
And I'm always hoping to hear from you soon.

As a baby I only viewed you as a pest,
As you got older, you finally gave me a rest.
And today, of my friends, you are the best.
Even though I have a bigger chest.

So Happy Birthday to my darling Spawn,
Without you, my day would have no dawn.
From a child to a woman you have undergone,
With a future of success and happiness to look on.

Paperwork

One of the problems with being Jewish is our obsession with personal resumes. Is the person you're dating good on paper? Is the person they want you to go out with good on paper?

Start with the all important number one question that should be asked and answered in the affirmative, before you pass Go, before you collect $200, Are they Jewish. Check.

You can then move on to:
Educated. Check.
- Ivy League. Secret bonus check.
Doctor or Lawyer. Check.
- Medical or law student. Possible future check once they pass the boards or the bar.
CPA, podiatrist or real estate broker. Half a check.
Writer, artist, or teacher. You lose a previously awarded check.
- Writer with published books and steady income, artist with paintings in galleries with steady income, teacher who happens to be independently wealthy - check reinstated.
Comes from a good family. Check.
Comes from a ridiculously wealthy family. Secret bonus check-check.
Is a good boy (translation - you'll be having sex in the missionary position for the rest of your life...May God have mercy on you). Check.
Is a good girl (translation - kiss blow-jobs goodbye..You might as well just kill yourself now). Check.

Usually, parents don't understand why people with equally good resumes who go through the interview process (i.e., dating) don't just get along, fall madly in love, and get married already.

The problem is the intangible that isn't accounted for. That spark that makes you want to sit with them on your couch all day watching movies, having sex, ordering pizza and ignoring all incoming calls all the while, feeling completely content and happy.

I met two different men on my trip to Greece this summer, one that happens to be pretty perfect on paper, one that is not. And of course, in typical fashion, I fall madly for the one that is not. Neither one lives anywhere near me, because really, there are over 2 million eligible men in New York and I've already dated 1,999,996 of them.

Bachelor Number One is Jewish (Check - here's your $200, you may proceed); educated, graduating first in his medical school class and receiving an award from the President of his country (Check. Check-check). Comes from an amazingly good family comprised of wealthy, educated professionals with medical degrees and/or PhD's (Women and men included) (Check, check). Extra-curricular activities include: deep sea diving in the Maldives, rock-climbing in the Alps, visiting the rain forests in Costa Rica, and heli-skiing in Canada. He has his own practice, is the youngest University Professor in his country, and is the youngest professional lecturer on his medical specialty. (He is invited to lecture anywhere from one to five times a month all over the world).

He is 5'11", blue eyes, blond hair, with a receding hairline, small bald spot, and an athletic build. And he dresses better than any man I have ever seen. Conversation with him is shallow, making any kind of emotional connection difficult, and the thought of having sex with him makes me shudder. Literally. But overall, he is a nice guy, with very honorable intentions.

Bachelor Number Two is NOT Jewish (GO TO JAIL. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200). Is an Engineer (HEY, where are you going?!), comes from a highly educated family comprised of professionals (doctors, lawyers, engineers - including ALL extended family) (Get back here, you don't have authority to move forward!), is independently wealthy (Wait a minute, did you say independently wealthy?), is NOT a good boy (Check for me!!! Yay!!!) and all we want to do is hang out doing nothing.

My poor mother, I felt so bad telling her. But she was surprisingly supportive. She just "wants me to be happy." She's betting Bachelor Number Two will go the way of most of my relationships, straight into the gutter. Crash and burn, baby. What she doesn't realize is that all those other relationships ended because the guys were good on paper. Now that there's someone not good on paper, he HAS to be the one I end up with. Any other scenario would just make too much sense.

Quote of the Day

I think you should follow your heart and not your head. You were never very smart anyway.

Pre-Holiday Prayer for Rosh-Hashana

Dear Lord, please give me the strength to be a good person and not fall prey to the nasty comments I will receive tonight from the women in my family.

Grant me the patience to not want to stab my mother in the neck when she, again, reminds me that I look terrible, and really should do something with my hair, or maybe buy a new outfit.

Let their evil words fall on deaf ears when they remind me that I’m still single, and almost 30, and I'm not as great as I think I am and should give the fat, older man at grandma's temple a chance.

Provide me with peace when the women comment on my need for plastic surgery, and ask why I don't buy myself brand name clothes instead of wearing regular clothes. Please Lord, allow me to hold my tongue and not tell them that I too would spend $1,500 on a handbag and $450 on shoes if I was a worthless shallow housewife who never did a real days work and instead mooched off my husband, while I lunched with my girlfriends, gave orders to the nanny and shopped all day.

Lord, make my countenance serene so that they do not see the bodily harm I will want to inflict upon them when they ask about my personal life, and try to set me up with men who are my "perfect match" until I discover their commitment/mommy/erectile-dysfunction/megalomania/financial/porn-addiction/drug-addiction/mental-incapacity/abusive issues that they've managed to hide from polite society but feel perfectly comfortable displaying to me within 15 minutes of our first meeting.

Grant me peace, oh Lord, to not commit murder or acts of reckless endangerment tonight and for the upcoming year to those you have so cunningly saddled me with as relatives.

May Your children rejoice in Your greatness oh Lord, and please, oh please, let me get through one damn holiday season unscathed and needing even more therapy.

Amen

Guerrilla Warfare - A Guide to Jewish Mothering

This handbook is secreted into delivery rooms around the world and comes in almost all languages. It provides a step-by-step guide on how to manipulate, coerce and guilt a Jewish child into submission.

The existence of this handbook is only provided upon birth or imminent birth of a Jewish child to a Jewish mother. This handbook reveals the intricacies involved in making a person who had the potential of becoming a normal well-adjusted member of society into a neurotic, guilt-obsessed, passive-aggressive Mama's Boy/Girl.

This handbook contains key phrases and silent treatment techniques that are practically guaranteed to be effective, including but not limited to:

• I gave up everything to raise you. And THIS is the thanks I get.
• No really, you do whatever you think is right. I mean, who am I to have an opinion? I'm just your mother.
• Eat. There are people starving all over the world, and you're too good to eat my food.
• When I was your age, I used to walk five miles to school. Uphill. Both ways. In the snow. All year round. And all you do is want want want.
• No, it's fine. You go out and enjoy your life. I'll just sit here. By myself. In the dark. *deep sigh*
• Who am I to want to want to see my son/daughter/grandchildren more than once a month?
• Oh, you finally called. It's nice to know you remember you have a mother.

Comparisons with other children to make sure your child feels inadequate are key. For example:

• Did you hear about the Goldstein boy? He got into Harvard. Oy, his mother must be so proud. What I am going to tell the ladies at Temple about you?
• Did you hear about Shari Klein? She got engaged to a DAWCTA. At least HER mother can rest easy. Isn't Shari two years younger than you?

Enlisting the help of women who have the handbook is also fair game. These women are highly trained and need only minimal coaching and/or information to effectuate the desired result:

• It's your grandmother. Why haven't you called your poor mother? Do you know the agony she's going through worrying about you?
• It's your aunt Ester. Have you gone to see your mother lately? Really? You've been busy? Apparently not too busy to go out with your friends, but too busy to see your own mother. I see.

And of course, if all else fails, the secret weapon: Crying. But use this with caution. Over-use of the Crying Weapon will only cause suspicion and backfire.

Change Your Own Diaper - Yes, I Would Make the Worst Mother

There is something wrong with my biological clock. It's not working. I don't hear any ticking. Nothing. Nada. Crickets. I might be the only living female who is almost 30, and not in the least concerned with having children.

To be perfectly honest, I would probably prefer to not have children. No one believes me. They think I'm lying or scared. My girlfriends call me crazy and brush off that statement as if I never really said it. Of course you want to have kids, they say, you're a woman. Every woman wants to have children.

And I tell them that I don't even like children. They smell, and slobber all over the place. And I have to pay attention to them, and play with them, when all I really want to do is watch some TV, maybe take a nap. But you'll love your own children. It's the most beautiful thing in the world, they insist.

And I tell them I'm not too keen on the responsibility. I like having my freedom to come and go as I please. What do you mean I have to PAY someone to watch it when I'm not around! This is worse than taking care of a dog, and I don't even have time for a dog. Dammit. And then my friends call me selfish. Selfish? Okay, maybe. But at least self-aware. And honest.

Why do you want to get married if you don't want kids, they demand. And I tell them that I look at marriage as two people who love each other and want to devote their lives to one other. Some choose to have families, some may be okay just being together without any additions. This for some reason evokes anger, as if I blew off the semester offering Being a Real Woman 101, when there was a waiting list for the class. Geez.

And to say something that will make most people gasp in shock and horror (and probably never read this blog again): I don't think pregnant women are beautiful. I think they look like they're pregnant. They look uncomfortable and swollen, and tired. They worry about their weight and their bloated ankles, the stretch marks on their stomachs, and the back pain that doesn't allow them to sit still for five minutes. These women do not look happy to me. And personally, I don't think a woman who looks like she's carrying a basketball under her shirt is very attractive. Waddling, hhhhmmm, not so nice. And unless that whole "inner glow" thing has something to do with the sweats after their morning sickness, I haven't seen much "glowing" going on.

Of course, this whole issue is premature, since I'm in no danger of getting knocked-up by anyone right now. Like my grandmother says, "First you need to find the donkey, before you can take him for a ride."

Unfortunately, all the men I meet want kids. And they don't want just one or two, they want a soccer team. And they expect me to stay home and take care of them. What happened to the good old days, when men viewed children as a burden, and only had them because their wives brow-beat them into it? Why can't I find a guy like that?

Men have it easy in the kid department. They get up, go to work, be intellectual, make money, talk to their buddies at the urinal, and come home to "Daddy, daddy, daddy!! I missed you! Look what I made!" while I stand in the doorway to the kitchen in an apron, covered in poop stains and magic marker, a spatula in one hand, and a baby dangling by its diaper in the other, my hair looking like I've been playing with electricity all day, matted with food that number three, the forward, thought would look better in my hair than in her mouth, while I watch the touching scene of my husband and number five, the goalie, unfold in my foyer. My husband plays with the future Pele for a little while, puts the baby down, eats his dinner, watches TV, gets his blow-job and goes to bed. Um yeah, I don't think so.

I think the only solution is to find an older man, divorced, with grown children. I could be the evil, younger trollop step-mother, after their daddy's money. The newer model, someone his ex-wife will call that "Chippy Bimbo." I could be a chippy bimbo. I could be THE chippy bimbo, as long as I don't have to have to kids.

Her Schwartz is Almost as Big as Mine

My Life is God's Comic Strip: Yo, kiddo! Are you coming out tonight?

19 Year Old Virgin Baby Sister: No, I have a date.

MLIGCS: oooo-ooooooo, you have a daaaate? With who? Is he cute?

19YOVBS: Yes, he's cute, he's an athlete. He was in the Olympics.

MLIGCS: NIIIICE!!! Are you wearing your pretty-pretty panties?

19YOVBS: Actually, I'm not wearing any panties.

MLIGCS: *sniffle* You have learned well, young Jedi.

My Life Goes From Sucks to Blows

Once upon a time, not very long ago, there was a certain neurosurgeon that I was madly and painfully in love with. Not real love, of course, because adulation, worship and a lack of spinal column equate to more of a, "I'm so infatuated with you that I'm going to make a total ass out of myself until you get disgusted by my undignified behavior and leave me" kind of love.

The kind where he says "jump," and I say, "I'm already in the air." Sad, sad but oh so true.

We dated briefly; gave it two tries in six months. And it's been about six months since I last saw him. I think about him sometimes, and I say to myself, "Why couldn't he just like me? If he liked me, and we were together, it would have been perfect." And then I try to get a hold myself and stop acting like such a desperate pussy-ass girl.

I also think about him when I bump into random people I know, and wish it was him instead of them. Yes, there is no limit to how pathetic I can be. No, there are not enough help groups in the world to save me.

Last week he was on my mind again, but this time, I thought, "Wow, I think I'm totally over him finally. Must be this new guy I'm spending time with. Why bother with the idea of someone, when you have a real live person caring about you."

But who the hell am I kidding?! I mean, the title of the damn blog is "My Life is God's Comic Strip" and based on prior experiences, we all know this healthy attitude and clear-minded state of affairs can't last.

Saturday, while spending time with this new guy, who happens to be AMAZING, I think to call one of my friends to make plans for the evening. Turns out she has plans with a new friend, who is bringing some of his pals out with them. And she hesitates and says, "I don't want to ruin your weekend," but I'm in such a good mood, I'm thinking nothing can ruin my weekend. Until she tells me that one of the pals coming out is the neurosurgeon.

"What?! WHAT?!?!?!?! You're going out with the NEUROSURGEON? MYYYYYY NEUROSURGEON?!?!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's such a weird coincidence."

"Listen to me, and listen to me good. You are going to bring me up in conversation somehow, and you are GOING TO MAKE ME SOUND LIKE A GODDAMNED ROCKSTAR. I am nothing short of AMAZING, WONDERFUL AND LIVING IT UP. If he doesn't say he knows me, you offer to set us up because I'm SO FUCKING GREAT. If he says he knows me, you act like he's OUT OF HIS MIND FOR LETTING ME GO. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Mental Note to Self

When talking to the young partner who has a crush on you about an interview he just conducted, don't joke that the only reason you got hired was because you gave the Hiring Committee blow-jobs. All blow-job talk should be saved for the Christmas party, where you get really hammered and can let yourself go.

The Somewhat Pinkish, or Maybe Mauve Letter

I grew up having it hammered into my head that I absolutely had to remain a virgin until I got married. If I didn't, that meant I was a terrible person with no morals and self-control and no one would marry me. And since the goal of bringing female babies into this world in my culture is so that they can grow up, get married and bring more babies into the world, pre-marital sex essentially meant social ostracism the likes of which makes Hester Prynn seem like the town mayor.

In high school I never had a date. Not even one. Not even to my prom. Needless to say, people who know me now and see pictures from then have a nice time making fun. And yes, there's a lot of material.

When the topic of high school comes up today, someone always invariably asks, "so, who did you hang out with? The football players? Were you a cheerleader?" To which I respond, "no, I was a nerd in honors classes and played on the badminton team. I had braces until the end of junior year, and my uncle's pet name for me was Chunk, after his fat dog." No one believes me. That's fine with me. Let them think I'm being modest.

Seeing as how my chances for losing my virginity were not that high, I wasn't that concerned with my morals. But then I got to college. And met boys. And met the gym. And invariably met the end of my virginity.

But even then, I had such a guilty feeling, it was such a big deal at 19. It was a big deal until I got married at 26. Having sex with someone meant they were my boyfriend. Meant we were in a serious relationship. SERIOUS. There were no one-night stands in my past (and actually, for all of my philandering, there still aren't any one night stands.)

My ex-husband couldn't care less that I wasn't a virgin. My mother, on the other hand, insisted I lie to him and even offered to take me to the gynecologist to reinstate the evidence with a couple of quick stitches. Um, no thanks. I'll take my chances.

Today, as I get older, sex isn't the big deal it was a few years ago. It doesn't come with titles and classifications of "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." Now it's "dating" or "seeing someone" or even just "hanging out." The people you date don't ask where you spend your nights when you're not with them. It's an unspoken rule: No one is exclusive, even if you're having sex, unless you have "the talk." "The talk" has replaced sex as the threshold for entering into a serious relationship. And you can bet you're not having "the talk" anytime soon.

Even though I've bought into this whole way of dating, I still have a weird need to classify whatever it is I'm doing with someone. You know, are we "seeing each other" or are we "just friends" or are we "friends with benefits" and so on. I think it's a female-type need, to create parameters on some level in order to create a sense of security, a sense of standing on hard ground. If you name it and define it, it takes shape and becomes something. Women tend to have a greater need to define, to make it something over "well, let's just see where things go...." But at the end of the day, no matter how many words we use, it's our actions that determine the outcome of our relationships. Actions are the most telling example of someone's feelings. There are "boyfriends" that act like total jerks, and guys you're "seeing" who are really just amazing. So maybe it's okay that a relationship doesn't have a title. At the end of the day, as women, I think it's okay to relax with the titles we need to put on things and just let the relationship evolve.

Who knows, if I can play it cool long enough, I might reach my goal of "Dr. and Mrs. So Damn Rich I Don't Need to Work Another Day in My Life and Have Decided to Take Up Cooking and Piano Lessons When I'm Not Meeting With My Personal Trainer." A girl can dream.

Things Men Feel Comfortable Enough to Say to Me

I told my family I was coming to visit you and if I don't return, I'm either married or dead. Which if you think about it, is essentially the same thing.

Quote of the Day

You're looking at me like I'm the idiot child of a man who had to wear protective head-gear for the better part of his life.

And the Winner Is....

Hee Haw, Missouri sucks hairy moose balls.

The jury ESPECIALLY sucks, and plaintiff's attorney can spend the rest of his life giving them head. And swallowing.

The problem with having trials in bum fuck, where the education is scarce but Hollywood movies with their Hollywood endings proliferate, is that these nice, simple folk, get the wrong idea about the legal system.

Just because the plaintiff is from your hometown, with his "Aw shucks, golly gee wiz, those darn Northerners done come down here and try to take advantage of us nice, hardworking simple folk and they deserve to be punished!!" attitude does not automatically entitle him to win. No really. Good thing there's an appellate system in place. Mr. Hee Haw won't see a dime for a very very long time.

The problem with the case is that it turned into a turf war, having nothing to do with the evidence. Or the lies plaintiff was caught in on the stand. Or the fact that he practically admitted that he concocted the entire thing. So the jury wanted to stick it to the outsiders, those "horrible people up north that don't give a damn about the little guy."

The whole trial was surreal, as if To Kill A Mockingbird was being played out before my eyes. Plaintiff's counsel grandstanding, character witnesses that included plaintiff's eighth-grade bus driver and his preacher. Fifty-eight thousand references to how the plaintiff was "saved" by returning to the church, and how he now lives his life according to Jesus's teachings.

Of course, it was painfully disappointing to have spent two weeks in Hee Haw only to lose. So on Friday, after finding out the verdict, I did what any attorney would do, I started drinking heavily and didn't stop until I got home and passed out in my clothes. Eight vodka rocks, three at the airport, five on the plane. And one lost wallet later.

Saturday morning I crawled to the bank, dark circles of makeup under my eyes, to cancel my accounts and order a new debit card.

"So ma'am, did you say you lost your wallet or it was stolen?"

"Um, I lost it. And would you mind not screaming?" I rasped.

"I'm not screaming ma'am."

"Oh."

Greetings from Bum-Fuck

I’m in Missouri, or as they like to call it here, Missour-ah. I will be in Missour-ah until Labor Day weekend for a trial. Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. I’m actually not only in Missour-ah, but I’m in one of the deepest darkest corners of the “Show Me” State (Show me what? I have no idea because in all honesty, there’s NOTHING here I want to see).

For some reason, everyone keeps asking if I’m from New York, even though I’ve tried my gosh golly darndest to be as sweet and nice as peach pie. I haven’t lost my temper once and I haven’t even rushed anyone to move faster than their regular speed of neutral bordering on reverse.

Scenes from My Cousin Vinny keep flashing across my mind, and I live in constant fear while I drive with the radio on and the windows down that some state trooper is going to pull me over, confiscate my CD, chuck me under the chin with my driver’s license and tell me “there’s no dancin’ in these here parts. Preacher don’t allow it.”

Some older gentleman near the courthouse leaned in real close yesterday, leering and asked, after winking at me, whether I was Indian. I wasn’t sure if he meant dots or feathers, but I just skee-dadled away from him as fast as my stilettos allowed.

Being of Middle Eastern descent, I contemplated lying and telling everyone I was I-talian before coming here. But something about lying about my background bothers me. This is still America, after all. So I lied and told him I was Israeli, close enough, but not as inflammatory as the real deal. He made some weird ooooo-ing sound and has left me alone since.

Missour-ah is not that bad. Everybody is real friendly, and the truck to person ratio is about 3 to 1. I’m off to decide which fine dining establishment I want to eat at tonight, this will probably be my hardest decision of the day. Hhhhmmm, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse…..Fuck it, I’ll splurge and order pizza. Can’t go wrong with pizza. It’s like sex, even when it’s bad, it’s still kinda good.

Saturday Night Fever

- I found you an apartment, exactly in the area you wanted.

- No way Mom!

- Yes, the guy is getting married and he’s giving up his place. It’s an illegal rental, so no lease to worry about. Come to his wedding on Saturday night with me, his landlord will be there, she’s a little old lady; make nice to her, she’ll love you, you’ll get a great apartment.

- Shit, I have to come to his wedding? I hate these weddings, everyone stares at you and gossips.

- Look what’s the big deal, you spend one night with your mom, one wedding, and then you get a great place to live in.

- Fine. The things I have to do to find decent housing in this city.

Saturday night……

- Hey, didn’t you go out with that guy a few years ago?

- Who? The one with the hair plugs? Yeah, I did. Look, he’s here with someone. I think that’s a ring on her finger. Oh he was a nice guy, I’m happy for him…..Bartender, glass of white wine please.

23 minutes later……..

- Um, MLIGCS?

- Yeah Mom?

- Isn’t that your ex-boyfriend?

- Oh my god, I haven’t seen him since we got engaged and I left him for my ex-husband. Ohhhh, look at his wife, she’s gorgeous. And, wait, does she look pregnant to you?

- Yeah, maybe only a few months, but pregnant. She’s really tall, and so thin, even pregnant.

- Yes, I see that. Thanks Mom…..Bartender, vodka. Rocks.

17 minutes later……

- Oh dear lord, there’s my ex-mother-in-law. I didn’t know she was going to be here. I haven’t seen her since I left my motherfucking wife-beating ex. Jesus, could this night get any worse?

- Well, actually…..

- IS THAT MY motherfucking wife beating ex-husband?!?!?! AND HE’S HERE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND?!?!?!? I didn’t know she’s a blond…..What the fuck is going on? This was supposed to be a wedding, not a goddamn convention. Bartender, whiskey. Neat. Actually, just give me the damn bottle.

The Real Reason They're Called Blind

The problem with going on a bazillion blind dates is that when you meet someone, on the bazillion and one blind date, who, once AGAIN, misrepresented themselves and looks nothing like their picture, you basically want to throw a drink in your own face so the alcohol can burn your retinas and optical nerves up into your brain and kill the neurons holding the image of their ugly lying face from your mind as you blindly grope your way out of the bar.

Produce is in Aisle Three

I know it doesn't say "turnip" across my forehead. The reason I know this is because I've caught glimpses of myself in various mirrors on occasion, and my forehead is blank. No writing, no scribbles, no signs, no doodles.

So I'm always amazed when someone attributes to me the intelligence levels of a vegetable. Not that there's anything wrong with turnips, per se, but really, everyone knows they're not as smart as asparagus or a particularly advanced cauliflower.

My girlfriend and I both met a guy whose romantic overtures we each rejected (unbeknownst to either of us at the time). And then, I receive a very curious email from him, months and months later.

The email asked about life, what's going on, singledom, the usual tripe. And oh so casually let me know he sent my girlfriend an email that went unanswered.

In response to my brilliantly witty and interesting reply letting him know that we are still single, he decides to offer himself as a prospective candidate. TO BOTH OF US. The, "hey there's always a great guy here in [somewhere that totally sucks] if ever your friend or you have interest ;)". (Don't even get me started on the emoticon).

Gentlemen, please, pay attention to the following: If a woman ignores you, don't try to circumvent her rejection by backdooring in through her friends. Women, although crazy and emotional on occasion, ARE NOT STUPID. I AM NOT STUPID. Oh, and I'm also not a pimp.

And please, for the love of god and all things holy and sacred on this good earth, you don't let a woman know she's part of your lineup. Seriously, fishing operations need to be covert. Not, "Hey, I'll take you, or your friend, or even that woman standing off to your left..."

Matters of the heart are delicate, and should be treated as such. Dipshit.

Conversation Snippets of Interest

My first drink ever was a flaming shot of 151.

What's that?

It's a shot of 151, lit on fire.

Oh.......Do you blow it out first?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey, I know this is a long shot, but my old college roommate, from about 12 years ago, lives in the town you used to live in for a while. You wouldn't happen to know Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor would you?

Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor? Hhmmm? Oh yeah,yeah, I think I know him. I went out on a couple of dates with him.
What?! You actually know him?

Listen, if he's single and Jewish, and in the State of New York at some point in his life, chances are I dated him.

Where did you guys meet?

On JDate.

Are you still on it?

No.

Why?

Because there's only a finite supply of men on JDate.....
---------------------------------------------------
MLIGCS: Listen, guys, we appreciate your interest in chatting us up and buying us drinks, but really, we're waaaay too old for you.

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: There's no way you're older than me.

MLIGCS: How old are you?

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: 24.

MLIGCS: Oh. I guess we're the same age.....Wanna dance?
----------------------------------------------------------
MLIGCS: Is that a hair growing out of the mole on her upper lip?

Friend: (shudders) I think so.

MLIGCS: It's really long.

Friend: I know, it's scary looking.

MLIGCS: It's thick like a pubic hair, but it's sticking straight out.

Friend: Yup. Do you think she knows its there?

MLIGCS: She probably uses it to floss.

Meow

MLIGCS: Look, I really don't want her to come out with us tonight, she's not any fun, and she's a total cock-block.

Girlfriend: Oh, stop being such a baby, she won't cause any trouble. And we're all going out in a group, so you'll have a good buffer.

Four hours later.....

Young strapping male in a group talking to Cock-block says to me:

Hey, Cock-block says you're crazy. She says you're the total crazy one in the group.

Really? That's funny. Yes, actually I am. I'm Crazy. But she's Easy. So gentlemen, start your engines.

If the Shoe Fits.....

In response to this on my match.com profile: "I don't like pedicures because I can't stand anyone touching my feet. I don't like manicures because I don't have the patience to sit around and watch nail polish dry"

I get this:

Dear MLIGCS,

I was searching through the on-line personals and came across your profile.

You seem like a very nice person and one who I think I have a lot in common. Of course, I do have a foot fetish and hope this will not be a problem for you. I love everything about feet. I like socks too. If I like a woman, I want to sleep with her socks. And sometimes, put my penis in her socks. I also can only reach an orgasm when I get a "foot job" and find nothing more sexually arousing then bringing a woman to climax with my foot. Some men are turned on by watching "fisting" films, but my library consists of "footing" films.

Have you seen the work of Troy McFoote? He has been in such films as"Footing Angels", "Something is afoot in Savanah's bedroom", "2 Feet from Heaven" and "Footsie and Tootsie go to Washington." (The latter has an anal footing scene that won an AVF award).

I suspect the reason I like feet so much is that I do not have arms. Well, no arms below the elbow. (I thought I should mention that also.) Some women are turned on by stubs, which I often cover with a vibrating steel cover. But, come to think of it, the stubs actually look like little feet, so this too may be problematic. I hope not.

I think in every other way I am the perfect man for you.

I anxiously await your reply.
The Foot Master

I love my friends.....

Admitting You Have a Problem is the First Step

Try to tell me that I can't have something, and now....I. Have. To. Have. It. Try to tell me that you're not interested in me, and now....I think I love you.

It's always the way. "Hhhmmm, not so sure if I'm really that into him" turns into "Oh my god, what am I going to doooooo, I'll never find anyone like him agaiiiiiin. Waaaaaaaa" when you break up.

"Yeah, he's ok I guess" becomes "He's soooo amazing, I love everything about him and want to have babies with him" the minute you find out he's dating other people.

Your backup becomes Bachelor(ette) Number One the minute you find out you're actually their backup. Sucker.

Losing the power (power you only THOUGHT you had, when in reality, you had NOTHING BUT DELUSIONS OF YOUR OWN DESIRABILITY) will always turn a confident, relaxed person in the dating world into a sniveling pile of insecurity, chock full of aberrant behavior, pathetic phone calls, and that desperate nervous little giggle every time they're with the other person.

Happens to me all the time. I just found out that a girl on my trip to Greece thought one of the guys I was interested in was cute. His "cuteness" has just tripled for no reason other than the smell of competition and that his options have just expanded beyond me. Now, He Must Be Mine.

My friend, on a date with a woman last night that he was sort of interested in, is very depressed today. Because last night, she revealed that she's dating someone else as well, and is...torn between them. Now, he loves her.

"What?! I'm NOT your One and Only?.....But I think we're soul mates destined to be together by the gods; it's written in the stars. Yes, I just realized it this second. What's your point?"

Puh-leeze

Irony, (no, not a black fly in your chardonnay...) is when you stop seeing someone, rejoin the internet dating site you met him on, and get an email from the site with your "potential matches" where he (out of thousands) happens to be highlighted as one of your perfect matches. I mean really.

Kindergarten Hath No Fury Like A Grown Man Scorned

The silent treatment is an interesting, if somewhat outdated, method of dealing with hurt feelings and anger. I can understand its effectiveness when one is attempting to avoid saying something akin to kicking the other person in the jimmy. Or when you want to send a clear, Bat-signal-like message that, "Hey, I'm rip roaring mad, and instead of just telling you why, you're going to find out by me ignoring you, you asking me what's wrong, and me ignoring you even more." The proverbial Na Na Na Na Poo Poo, if you will.

Well, the problem with writing a blog is that sometimes your blog involves talking about other people and their relation to your life. Those people may not appreciate all the things you write about them. Of course, they clearly appreciate all the good things you write, but the bad is always taken as if you've written the most vituperative, scathing pile of epithets ever strung together. Please, get over yourself, no one takes it as seriously as you do.

Once again, someone is PISSED about something I've written. Heinrich has gotten his diaper all up in a bunch because of the post, You Have the Right to Remain Silent. He wasn't angry for weeks after I posted it, but for some reason, last week, he was ANGRY, and we had an argument. Which ended with me apologizing profusely, licking the bottom of his feet, and taking it down the next day. I figured if something I did made someone I care about that upset, then the only right thing to do was apologize and attempt to remedy the wrong as best I could.

Heinrich told me he didn't want to talk to me, because he needed time to calm down. He then contacted me, proceeded to stand me up on our date and refused to return any of my calls.

Two days later, I receive a lame text, (by lame I mean, ":(" ), I asked "?" to which he responded "I don't like you, mad but I do miss you." Okay. But he also told me to leave him alone, so I did.

After a few days of not quite knowing what the hell was going on, especially when this was someone that I would speak with, IM, text, and/or see every single day, I decided to just ask whether he was so angry that we were no longer seeing each other? Or whether he was still waiting to calm down? (via text message, since phone calls weren't being returned, and emails were ignored). Of course, he ignored this. So I was forced to say that the silent treatment was hurtful and that an answer was only fair. He finally wrote me back, saying that he's trying to calm down. And has proceeded to ignore me since.

I know dear readers that you will say that he's found someone else or is just trying to punish me, or something shady is going on (maybe the feds got him and he had to use his one phone call to call his attorney...), or he hates me and just wants to torture me for as long as he can. And that's all well and good. But I honestly believe that this is an ego issue. A Big Ego Issue. And there just comes a point where I'm done assuaging his tender ego. And that point is one week and one day.

I figure a week is fair, we've only been dating for two months. He gets one week to ignore me, be mean, stand me up, be disrespectful and treat me badly even though I've apologized profusely, groveled and removed the offensive post. Now, I'm done caring. The post is going back up. And his childishness and petulance, along with his white-collar criminal activities, are put on display for all to read about. Because there is some crap up with which I will not put.

Quote of the Day

When god closes a door, he always opens a window, because you can't throw yourself out of a door.

Commitment vs. Monogamy

There is a difference between commitment and monogamy.

Generally, women assume that once a man is willing to be monogamous, he is also willing to commit to a relationship. ("Relationship" meaning the girl definition, you know, sharing, affection, vulnerability, emotional availability, unicorns, rainbows and all that crap.) The two concepts become interchangeable in a woman's mind. God knows, monogamy is hard enough, and in a city like New York, it's virtually impossible. (Let's just say I'm happy I'm not a man, because I'd probably try to stick it into anything that made it hard. Well, there's a lot of eye candy here folks.) But relationships are even harder.

But some men don't necessarily see it that way. There is a breed of man that believes having one sexual partner is preferable to having to go out nights with the boys and try to score some ass. It's easy, it's fun, and over time, he can build a really great physical relationship because of the comfort levels he achieves. He's the emotionally unavailable guy, the one who will call you his girlfriend, or the girl he's dating, but that doesn't necessarily mean he is committed to a "relationship."

Basically, from what I've heard from my girlfriends whining about "We're not sleeping with other people, but I don't feel like I'm one of his priorities" and my guy friends "she's fucking driving me crazy with all this 'we need to talk more and discuss our feelings' shit" a lot of relationships are not where the people in them think they are.

I know that men have feelings. And I even believe that once a man falls in love, really in love, he probably feels deeper than the woman. But, generally, it takes longer for men to be emotionally vulnerable, if they become so at all. And it's usually pretty easy for a woman to become emotionally vulnerable, especially if she's in a monogamous "relationship."

Lately, the way I've seen women break out of these "relationships" is by meeting someone else that provides them with some form of emotional support or caring that is lacking in their current "relationship." Not that these women are cheating, they're not intentionally going out to meet someone else because, obviously, they think they're in a real "relationship." But what seems to be happening is that they are meeting men through work or mutual friends, and some sort of friendship blossoms, or some sort of attraction develops.

This just happened to a good friend of mine. She had been dating her boyfriend for two years. And he seemed nice enough, friendly enough, a good drinking buddy, but he didn't seem like a good boyfriend. When her uncle was diagnosed with cancer, he totally understood that she couldn't make it to his buddy's birthday party, but he went anyway. Or the fact that he didn't really call or talk to her more than once or twice a week, but would make plans for the weekend, because he knew that's when he'd get some. But then again, who the hell am I to judge, I married the anti-Christ. So I just kept my mouth shut as long as she seemed happy.

And then she met one of my best friends. One of the best men on earth. With the potential to be the Most Amazing Boyfriend Ever. And they became "friends." Because their attraction was clearly more than just friends, but neither one was about to do anything immoral. The closer they got, the more my girlfriend realized that the emotional fulfillment she was getting from my best friend was something she had never gotten from her oh-so-mediocre boyfriend.

It was clear that although he was monogamous, he really wasn't committed to the relationship in any way. (They recently broke up, and I'm being super cheer-leader trying to get her and my best friend together, into a real "relationship").

It's something I've encountered in some of my own relationships, and it's hard to be able to differentiate between what I think is a relationship and what he feels is just monogamy. The difficulty is ascertaining what's really going on. And sometimes, you just don't know what you're missing until someone or something else shows it to you.

Or you can just do what I do: Date every wack-job within a fifty-mile radius, just to make sure you've given everyone a fighting chance to mess with your head as you whittle down the numbers. Sounds about right.

To My Dear Waxing Lady Who Happens to be Related to My Ex-Husband's New Girlfriend,

You and I have had a long and intimate relationship for about 15 years now. And I truly appreciate the hard work and effort you put in to rid me of my excess body hair. I even look forward to our little gossip sessions as you bend my leg back behind my ear to get nice and deep into my bikini line. Seriously, giving someone a Brazilian creates a certain bond, for sure.

But in all honesty, and not meaning any offense whatsoever, I really REALLY don't need to hear how my cheap, mother-fucking wife-beating ex-husband is wining and dining your relative at the trendiest and most expensive restaurants in town. Or how he spoils her with gifts, or how he's considered the most handsome young man in our community.

I don't appreciate being told that although people have warned her about him, his handsome good looks, charm, and expensive sports car are slowly but surely winning her over. (Being on Satan's payroll pays quite well, in case you were wondering.)

Yes, I remember the good-old days, when he was so charming, he threw me out of that expensive sports car in the middle of a residential area and went running to his mommy's house because he lost his temper at someone else, and I was trying to calm him down. Or the loving way he used to proclaim that he missed having sex with other women, even though I was always more than eager. Or the adorable little gifts he used to give me, like a punch or two in the arm because I was too tired to go out to dinner with his mommy when he made plans for us without talking to me first. Or that totally hysterical time on our honeymoon when he hid the video camera in the corner of our hotel room and secretly taped us having sex. Isn't he just precious?

Now I know that I'm the one that left him, and, believe it or not, I don't regret it for even one second. But, I also don't need to hear how one of the lowest life forms on earth is managing to get by just fine and living large, irrespective of how tired his one working neuron probably is.

So although I understand that you're probably imparting this information as a means of "keeping me in the loop" and saving me from any upsetting surprises, I think we should really stick to the topic of exfoliating, and maybe in-grown hairs. There should really be only one form of torture when you're getting waxed, so why don't you just give me another Brazilian, and we'll call it a day.

All the best,
My Life is God's Comic Strip

The Root of EVERY Word is Greek

Um, so I was away last week in Heaven, also known as Greece. Probably the BEST vacation I have ever been on. And that's saying a lot when you took your honeymoon in Tahiti and Bora Bora for three weeks in over-water bungalows.....

Spawn and my best friend were with me, as were 350 single, young, attractive, wealthy (ahem), Jewish people from all over Europe and America.

Of course seeing as how there are so many nice Jewish men to choose from, my best friend, Spawn and I ended up meeting three Greek guys on holiday, and spent most of our time partying with them. Because really, who the hell goes to Greece to meet Jewish men.

Needless to say, my dear overbearing Jewish mother was not impressed. Even more needless to say, I couldn't give a damn if I tried.

If you have never been to Greece (it was my first trip) and enjoy good food, weather, music, warm friendly people and dancing on furniture until the sun comes up, I highly recommend a trip.

You Have the Right to Remain Silent

The make-it or break-it thresh-hold for most women in relationships are your standards: Cheating, Abuse, Wanting More, Boredom, Someone Better Comes Along. Those generally hold true for me as well. Of course, the operative term is "generally."

I now have to add one more: Criminal Activity. Crazy as it may seem, criminal activity is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not talking about pillaging and plundering, or holding up your local store clerk. I'm talking white collar crime. The kind with a 25 year jail sentence.

See, letting me meet someone wonderful just wasn't enough for Fate. Someone sweet and caring, attentive and trustworthy. Someone willing to get into a relationship, and give it the proper nurturing. No. I get to find someone with all, I mean ALL, of the ideal male qualities (let's not EVEN get into physiology, because dear god, if anything should be illegal, it should be his equipment) who just happens to be breaking the law.

Of course, he insists that he's not, and that I just don't understand the nuances of what he's doing. But seriously, people, I'm no dummy, and there are certain things this country stands by, no matter what you've got cooking.

So yeah, I spend a year-and-a-half after my divorce dating every schmuck in NY, find a great non-schmuck, and now I have to worry about federal indictments. If it's not one thing, it's always another.

I can just see it now: "No Bobby, Jr., daddy can't make it to your Bar Mitzvah, but he'll be out in time for your high school graduation." How much privacy do they give you for conjugal visits?

(I DARE you to tell me my life is NOT God's comic strip - double dog dare you.)

Things NOT to do at your new job in the first two weeks:

1. Wear tight shirts that are sleeveless and/or show lots of cleavage (because it's damn hot in NY right now).
2. Download Kazaa and start burning CD's from your work computer.
3. Go to lunch with some partners and associates, and recommend to the senior associate going to Vegas for a bachelor party to be sure to hit the pool at the Hard Rock because there are some "hot pieces of ass" hanging out there.
4. Talk on the phone to your friends about the person you're dating and his illegal white collar crimes.
5. Tell the partner you work for that you're giving his revisions to your secretary because you can't read his handwriting "for shit."
6. Call the MIS guy a homosexual, in his native tongue. Repeatedly.
7. Sing along to the 80's music playing in your office, while people around you are trying to work.
8. Come in drunk from the night before. In the same clothes. Minus one pair of panties.
9. Delete important documents from the system (by accident) you were trying to copy and pass off as your own work.
10. Take a one week vacation to Greece three weeks into the job.
11. Tell the partner you work for the reason you were late is because you took the wrong subway, even though you really spent the morning having sex.
12. Blog.

It's Really What I Deserve

THIS is what happens when your baby sister reads your blog and finds out you cried after sex:

MyLifeIsGodsComicStrip: just got back from lunch, had a salad
Spawn: did you cry cause the salad was so good?
MLIGCS: yes, the salad was great
Spawn: great....or.....
Spawn: GREAT. YESS . YESSSS> YESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!
Spawn: (cue the sobbing)
Spawn: ?
Spawn: was it like that?
MLIGCS: I think you're a total asshole
MLIGCS: no, it was not like that at all
Spawn: WHY?!!
MLIGCS: we were on your bed doing it
Spawn: I'm not an asshole
Spawn: I was talking about your salad
MLIGCS: and then, we were on all of your clothes
Spawn: goshhhh
Spawn: ohhhh shhhtoppp
Spawn: there's no crying
MLIGCS: I KNOW
Spawn: are you crying???
Spawn: THERE'S NO CRYING IN SEX
MLIGCS: I'm a fucking moron
MLIGCS: I know
Spawn: Umpire: what seems to be the problem here Jimmy?
MLIGCS: She's crying
Spawn: (well Heinrich for our purposes)
Spawn: SHE'S CRYING SIR
Spawn: and THERE'S NO CRYING IN SEX
MLIGCS: there's no crying in sex
Spawn: there's just no crying...
Spawn: awww
Spawn: its ok
MLIGCS: no its not
Spawn: yes it is
Spawn: it shows you have feelings
Spawn: and you are VERY in touch with them
MLIGCS: I hate you
Spawn: and (very very exterrreeemely gay)
Spawn: but its ok
Spawn: hahaha
Spawn: oh.oh.yes.yesssss.....wait....(sniffle sniffle)
Spawn: Heinrich: what's the matter?
Spawn: MLIGCS: I HAVE NO IDEAAAA
Spawn: Heinrich: are you ok?!!
Spawn: MLIGCS: APPARENTLY NOTTTT
Spawn: Heinrich: was it that bad??
MLIGCS: hate
MLIGCS: you
Spawn: MLIGCS: NOOO not at all.....it was wonderful
Spawn: WAAAAAAAAA (sobbs)
Spawn: Heinrich: interesting approach...
Spawn: MLIGCS: I don't know what's wrong with meeeee (waaaaaaaaaaaa cue the sobbing again)
Spawn: you
Spawn: are
Spawn: MOM
Spawn: BAAAHAHAHA
MLIGCS: that was below the belt
Spawn: no noo
Spawn: c'mon
Spawn: its just fun and games
Spawn: I'm just teasing
Spawn: I don't mean it in a bad way
Spawn: its right outta a movie
Spawn: think about it
Spawn: we could make a movie outta your life
Spawn: and it would make MILLIONS
Spawn: all single Jewish women will flock to it
Spawn: we'd probably have to play the jewishness up a lil more
Spawn: but other than that I'm seeing success that may rival my big fat Greek wedding

"The Act"

I would like to introduce a guest writer, a dear male friend and fellow New York City dater. If anyone thinks I'm funny, make no mistake, I surround myself with people a lot more interesting than me.

NYC Reg. St. Sec. 503.

Statutory Rules for Sexually Active Males in New York:

1) Sexual Intercourse.

a) A man shall never use the words "make love," "making love," "lovemaking" or "make" and "love" within a five word span of each other or any derivation thereof.

b) On certain occasions, a man may, however, act in a sexual manner that may be deemed "making love" by one or both of the parties involved or disinterested and/or interested onlookers, provided that any such acts shall not be permitted more than once per any calendar month, unless special circumstances exist.

c) Notwithstanding that which is contained in (a) and (b), above, under no circumstances may a man ever, without express written consent of his entire wedding party, or, if not married, four friends not related within two degrees, "make love" twice without fucking eleven (11) times between said "lovemaking" sessions. In considering these eleven (11) sessions, anal sex shall count twice (2), any threesome involving two (2) women shall count as five (5), and any visit to a sex club or orgy involving seven (7) or more people shall count as the entire eleven (11). In fact, after such an occurrence, it is highly recommended that you "make love" within 12 hours of said act. (Trust me on this one fellas).

2) Demeanor during sexual encounters

a) Politeness is not permitted in reference to the sexual act. After you have already established a sexual relationship with a woman (or before with extreme caution and only if you have a criminal attorney on retainer), you should only demand, beg, order, plead, whisper, intimate or suggest. You may only make a request that a certain act be performed upon you if the tone, volume, and/or pitch of your voice does not remotely resemble that used when asking your significant other if you can go to Vegas with your friends for a five day batchelor party.

b) Always, and I mean always, have a conversation about "facials" before you decide to run it up the proverbial flagpole. I know some kinky women who would let you strap them on a wheel in a dungeon, yet never speak to you again if you grabbed them by the back of the neck and came in their face.

c) If you are one of many men who secretly enjoy having a finger shoved up your ass as you are cuming, wait until you are 100% sure that she will not attempt this maneuver on her own before making any such suggestions. And never request this before you have met her friends and are sure they like you.

d) Avoid forced "dirty talk." Wait until it comes from somewhere genuinely inside of you. Unless you have taken at least one improv and scene study class in the last two years, do not think you won't sound like a schmuck. Failure in heeding this warning will result in you coming across like Jim Carrey in an emotional drama scene.

e) Anyone can have a nice meal, come home, get undressed, get in bed and have sex. Very sweet. Throwing a woman against a wall or side of an elevator is not an act of violence. Further, if 51% of both of your bodies are past the threshold of the door, it is not public lewdness. (Or that is what I would argue on appeal).

Rocket Science

Okay people, here's a basic lesson in mathematics. If everyone stands at the doors of the subway train (effectively blocking egress and ingress), but do not move the fuck into the middle of the practically empty subway car, how many less people will be able to ride the subway on any given day? Take your time.......No really, this is obviously a difficult conceptual problem for my fellow subway riders, they obviously need MORE time to figure it out since they haven't figured it out by this morning, which I'm sure is NOT the first (or even tenth) time they've ridden the subway.

Here's a crazy idea: MOVE INTO THE FUCKING TRAIN YOU FUCKING LAZY SMELLY OAF! Do it so that I don't have to jab you in the ribs to make you move. Because I will! Oh yes, make no mistake. Just because you're listening to your stupid iPod doesn't mean you can just stand there ignoring everything going on around you. Next time I will choke you with the headphones. You're lucky I wore my flip flops to commute this morning, otherwise your shins would have gotten a beating too!

Into the car, people. Move INTO the damn car. So that others can get on and off. I'm amazed this city isn't under water yet.

Humiliations Galore

Here's something painfully embarrassing: crying after sex. Yes, that's what I said. Crying after sex. And not crying because you're sad, but crying because you've had a couple of cocktails (still one of my favorite words) and now you're emotionally vulnerable.

I cried after sex this weekend. I know, I know: there's no crying in baseball! But apparently, there is crying in my apartment. Like a TOOL! Like a little bitch. Heinrich was NOT amused. I don't blame him.

The next morning he tried to tease me, but I told him the sex was so bad that I started crying afterward in relief that it was over. He laughed at me. At least he's a good sport.

I feel like I'm starring in that movie, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. But I'm not acting, I'm just being myself - which is the terrifying part.

I think it's fine actually. I think being emotionally vulnerable is healthy, especially after this year and a half after my divorce. With all the head-on collisions, derailments and ten-car pile-ups I've encountered in the dating world, I'm clearly a little rusty at being genuine rather than a shit-talking player, but I'll find my way.

One of the dumbest people I know (who has a great heart) told me one of the smartest things I've ever heard: You'll never win if you're afraid to lose. I try to remember this every time I have a serious decision to make, like taking a new job, moving (still in the air), meeting a new guy or making a new friend.

Either way, I'm sure I'm not the first girl Heinrich has made cry and it's not the first time I've cried. It's just the first time in a really really REALLY long time.

I mean, it could have been worse, I could have laughed after sex. And that would not have been good. AT ALL.

Update

So today I started work at a new firm. I left my old one *deep sigh* for a 35% pay increase and more responsibility. KICK. ASS.

Apparently there are no single men at this firm either, although I subscribe to the adage "don't shit where you eat" or "don't eat your shit" or something along those lines.

I'll miss the Ambassador to Evil, and I'll miss sexually harassing all of my co-workers with porn clips and inappropriate displays of affection, but I'm sure I'll find other men here to harass. There was one partner, a good friend of mine, who is pretty square and straight laced, so of course, I would go running into his office and sit on his lap. Or I would walk in, turn around, grab my ass and ask whether what I was wearing made my ass look good. God help him if I was wearing anything that showed cleavage....But his impending break-down has nothing to do with me. I swear. Well, maybe a little.

And it has been quite eventfull with the Goy, we'll call him Heinrich, because it seems oh-so-appropriate. He met the Spawn of Satan and my uncle and his wife. I even went so far as to hide my profile on Match.Hell. I'm such a fucking pussy-ass girl. But I was getting emails from good guys that I really don't want to date right now, so I figured I would hide my profile, stop getting emails, and these guys won't think I'm a bitch for not responding. And when I finally blow things with Heinrich - because I'm such a fucking pussy-ass girl - I can always sign back on and start fresh. See? I'm always thinking ahead.

I'm off to try and fool these guys into thinking I'm a capable attorney.

Glorious Morning

Dear Fuck-Wads at My Bank,

I just wanted to write to let you know that I really did not appreciate having my check card declined this morning at the gas station. Although I understand your claim that my account information was compromised and "as the appropriate thing to do" you cancelled my card, it might have been wiser to wait UNTIL I GOT MY NEW CARD BEFORE CANCELING THE OLD ONE.

Your "golly fucking gee, Ma'am, it sure done said so in the letter we done sent you" response does not account for the fact that I never actually got the CARD that you were supposed to "done fucking send me."

Your unilateral cancellation has not only caused me humiliation, but agita in ways that may cause a permanent tick. Your "Ma'am, the new card was sent out on the 25th and I cannot explain its whereabouts" is a load of horse shit that you should be forced to eat. If you were within arms reach, you would definitely know the whereabouts of my four inch heel shoved so far up your ass it would be poking your damn eye out.

Your "As a courtesy Ma'am, we would be willing to send you another card under a rush order (three business days)" is really NOT A COURTESY WHEN YOU CAUSED THIS MESS TO BEGIN WITH. I have an idea, why don't you wait until the "new" card you claim to have sent out is ACTIVATED before you just go ahead and, oh, what the fuck, cancel the old one WITHOUT NOTICE. Hhhhhmmmmmm, just a suggestion, you total and utter DIPSHITS.

I wish a pestilence on you and your families so that you are effectively driven out of the gene pool.

My Life is God's Comic Strip

P.S. - to the traffic I encountered this morning after dealing with this mess, you TOO can SUCK MY ASS.