As an infidel heretic Jew-broad, I find it HILARIOUS that the first google adds ever displayed on my page all refer to religion. "Comforting Christian Art: Pencil drawings that help you experience God's love," "What is God Like? An introduction into the character of God as given in His words." I cannot make this up.
My golden calf and I are in fits of giggles. Did you know the easiest way to get my mother off the phone is to tell her that there is no god? And one of my favorite things is to make it known to anyone I meet that only eats kosher that the BEST tasting food on EARTH is bacon. The joke's on them.
And a constant source of reaffirmation for my non-belief is Jessica Simpson's refusal to use god's name. She doesn't say "Oh my god." Oh no, she says "Oh my Gaw." Oh my GAW. (I only know this because I'm addicted to bad reality tv. So are you!! I just have the balls to admit it.)
Oh my Gaw, I think the peroxide has soaked into her head and is causing full-cranial damage. Tuna fish is made out of TUNA. Chicken is made out of CHICKEN. This is the type of person who is afraid to take Gaw's name in vain. Ahem.
And for all of you out there thinking I'm going to Hell, that would be redundant at this point.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Bring out the Gimp!
I hurt myself. I NEVER hurt myself. That's not true, I'm very clumsy, I ALWAYS hurt myself, but never seriously.
But I hurt myself in the most idiotic way ever: on the treadmill. Who on this good earth gets hurt on the goddamn treadmill?! My ankle hurts, and it's swollen, and I can't walk. And the worst worst part is that I can't run again for at least four days. My trip to Miami is in eight days. Do the math, that means I only have FOUR days to get skinny. Dammit!
And the very very funny people at work are having a great time. Jokes about leg elevation and how ankle placement in the air is a normal daily activity for me are ringing up and down the hallways. Oh, you guys! Cut it the fuck out.
And stop asking me What happened? It's humiliating, especially since my "injury" is a result of something inane. Not rockclimbing, kick boxing, defending myself from a purse-snatching gang of thugs. No, it has to be the typical New York Jewish girl excuse (no, not the once a year sample sale at Barney's - where ambulances are stationed outside like at a hockey game at Madison Square Garden) but "at the gym." I got hurt AT. THE. GYM. For Christ's sake. Dignity forever is a thing of the past.
But I hurt myself in the most idiotic way ever: on the treadmill. Who on this good earth gets hurt on the goddamn treadmill?! My ankle hurts, and it's swollen, and I can't walk. And the worst worst part is that I can't run again for at least four days. My trip to Miami is in eight days. Do the math, that means I only have FOUR days to get skinny. Dammit!
And the very very funny people at work are having a great time. Jokes about leg elevation and how ankle placement in the air is a normal daily activity for me are ringing up and down the hallways. Oh, you guys! Cut it the fuck out.
And stop asking me What happened? It's humiliating, especially since my "injury" is a result of something inane. Not rockclimbing, kick boxing, defending myself from a purse-snatching gang of thugs. No, it has to be the typical New York Jewish girl excuse (no, not the once a year sample sale at Barney's - where ambulances are stationed outside like at a hockey game at Madison Square Garden) but "at the gym." I got hurt AT. THE. GYM. For Christ's sake. Dignity forever is a thing of the past.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Opening Day
There are two opening days every spring. The one, of course, where nine uniformed men trot out onto a diamond, toss a ball around, and bore us to death.
And the one that holds some serious interest to all men between the ages of 20 and 75 in metropolitan areas. That's right, the first nice day of the season, where women dig deep into their closets and pull out their "almost-appropriate for the office but I don't give a damn, I want to wear a short skirt and sling-backs today because I'm tired of looking like a polar bear" outfits.
Lunch is eaten outside, on building steps or benches with groups of guys sitting around, watching the girls with their swinging pleated skirts and shapely calves walk by. It's a joyous occasion that holds the promise of more flesh-bearing to come once the temperatures really get going. Summer and cleavage are just around the corner. And then the real ball playing can start.
So, for everyone in the northeast today, go outside, take a look, soak in the sun and the sights. It's only going to get better boys.
And the one that holds some serious interest to all men between the ages of 20 and 75 in metropolitan areas. That's right, the first nice day of the season, where women dig deep into their closets and pull out their "almost-appropriate for the office but I don't give a damn, I want to wear a short skirt and sling-backs today because I'm tired of looking like a polar bear" outfits.
Lunch is eaten outside, on building steps or benches with groups of guys sitting around, watching the girls with their swinging pleated skirts and shapely calves walk by. It's a joyous occasion that holds the promise of more flesh-bearing to come once the temperatures really get going. Summer and cleavage are just around the corner. And then the real ball playing can start.
So, for everyone in the northeast today, go outside, take a look, soak in the sun and the sights. It's only going to get better boys.
Ripley's Believe It or Not
Okay, today kids, we're going to play a new game called "How Many God-Damned Times Am I Going to Run Into My Motherfucking Wife-Beating Ex-Husband" No, come on. It'll be fun. There'll be prizes, maybe even a raffle. Who knows, you might get to go home with a gold fish in a plastic bag.
Well, we all know the last time the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) decided to have some sport.
And there have been a number of times prior to that, one of which included the opportunity of making a slight adjustment to my steering wheel and maybe a little pressure to the gas, and oops, "Officer, that man (My Motherfucking Wife-Beating Ex-Husband) came out of nowhere. I swear." blink blink.
But I certainly can't be upset over missed opportunities, just wait for future ones. NO, I'm just kidding. I would never do anything, I would obviously hire someone. (I'M KIDDING PEOPLE, I'M KIDDING!!!)
Anyway, last night, while on the phone with a man I happen to have a crush on, who happens to live too far away, who I happen to be visiting in nine days (Yay!), I practically walked INTO my ex as he's leaving the gym and I'm walking in. It was really unavoidable. There's only one entrance to my behemoth, Home Depot of a gym.
So here's our list so far:
1. The party in the city I went to over the summer thrown by people I didn't even know.
2. The missed opportunity incident.
3. The Matzo Ball I attended the night before Christmas Eve that had over 2000 people.
4. The SoHo incident. (I might have to count this as two)
5. The gym: four times and counting.
I'm not counting court appearances, the exchange of goods and furniture (actually, it was more like, my taking of goods and furniture thanks to my understanding, anti-wife-beating judge), or the random passing by each other in the car while driving.
No cheating is allowed (conspiring with the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) disqualifies you from the game), everyone must wait their turn, and everyone gets to guess when the next time I get to see my little Pooh-Bear will be. The winner gets to name his prize (within reason, I'm not buying anyone a porsche. Get over it, it's my game.) The game is over if I happen to kill myself prior to its completion. (and it doesn't count if he comes to my funeral).
Good luck!!
Well, we all know the last time the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) decided to have some sport.
And there have been a number of times prior to that, one of which included the opportunity of making a slight adjustment to my steering wheel and maybe a little pressure to the gas, and oops, "Officer, that man (My Motherfucking Wife-Beating Ex-Husband) came out of nowhere. I swear." blink blink.
But I certainly can't be upset over missed opportunities, just wait for future ones. NO, I'm just kidding. I would never do anything, I would obviously hire someone. (I'M KIDDING PEOPLE, I'M KIDDING!!!)
Anyway, last night, while on the phone with a man I happen to have a crush on, who happens to live too far away, who I happen to be visiting in nine days (Yay!), I practically walked INTO my ex as he's leaving the gym and I'm walking in. It was really unavoidable. There's only one entrance to my behemoth, Home Depot of a gym.
So here's our list so far:
1. The party in the city I went to over the summer thrown by people I didn't even know.
2. The missed opportunity incident.
3. The Matzo Ball I attended the night before Christmas Eve that had over 2000 people.
4. The SoHo incident. (I might have to count this as two)
5. The gym: four times and counting.
I'm not counting court appearances, the exchange of goods and furniture (actually, it was more like, my taking of goods and furniture thanks to my understanding, anti-wife-beating judge), or the random passing by each other in the car while driving.
No cheating is allowed (conspiring with the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) disqualifies you from the game), everyone must wait their turn, and everyone gets to guess when the next time I get to see my little Pooh-Bear will be. The winner gets to name his prize (within reason, I'm not buying anyone a porsche. Get over it, it's my game.) The game is over if I happen to kill myself prior to its completion. (and it doesn't count if he comes to my funeral).
Good luck!!
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Minions
My mom has evil powers. All moms have evil powers; like bionic hearing, or the ability to see through things, but my mom takes the cake. Her scariest evil power is the ability to know when one of my friends lost her virginity. Just by looking at her. I swear.
Needless to say this caused serious tension and paranoia for my friends in high school. (I was in no danger of getting a boy to ask me out on a date, much less losing my virginity. Braces, glasses, unruly curly hair and being in the honors program are EASILY the most effective form of birth control ever). Like the time Stacey came over, and right after she left, my mom looked at me and said, "Does Stacey have a boyfriend? Because she's doing IT." IT being something no parent should ever mention to an awkward teenage girl.
I vehemently denied it, and defended Stacey's honor, ending with the triumphant, "If Stacey did IT, she would have told me! She's MY friend!" Ha. So there. I win. Beat that. A week later, Stacey admitted she had been doing IT for a month. *deep sigh*
Apparently evil powers can be passed down from generation to generation. I was having dinner with my 19 year old sister last night. And she kept looking at me.
Sister: You look really good. Did you do something different?
Me: Me? No, nothing different. I cut some long bangs. But that's it.
(Resume eating, change subject immediately)
Seven minutes later:
Sister: No, it's not the hair. Maybe its the blue sweater, it looks good with your black hair.
Me: Yeah, maybe that's it.
(Look down at food, begin stuffing large pieces of chicken into mouth, change subject immediately)
Four minutes later:
Sister: (peers at me, eyes suddenly get wide with understanding, covers gaping mouth, starts pointing) You look good because you had SEX this weekend!!!!! Oh god, that's what it is!!!! Oh, gross!!!!
Me: (laugh uncomfortably, look around restaurant) No, no I didn't.
Sister: Yes! Yes you did. Wait! When?! NO, I don't want to know. GROSS! No, really, when? No, don't tell me! Wait a minute, does that mean when I start doing it, I'm going to look this good?
Me: Yes, take your phone off of vibrate and go get laid already and leave me alone. You spawn of Satan.
Needless to say this caused serious tension and paranoia for my friends in high school. (I was in no danger of getting a boy to ask me out on a date, much less losing my virginity. Braces, glasses, unruly curly hair and being in the honors program are EASILY the most effective form of birth control ever). Like the time Stacey came over, and right after she left, my mom looked at me and said, "Does Stacey have a boyfriend? Because she's doing IT." IT being something no parent should ever mention to an awkward teenage girl.
I vehemently denied it, and defended Stacey's honor, ending with the triumphant, "If Stacey did IT, she would have told me! She's MY friend!" Ha. So there. I win. Beat that. A week later, Stacey admitted she had been doing IT for a month. *deep sigh*
Apparently evil powers can be passed down from generation to generation. I was having dinner with my 19 year old sister last night. And she kept looking at me.
Sister: You look really good. Did you do something different?
Me: Me? No, nothing different. I cut some long bangs. But that's it.
(Resume eating, change subject immediately)
Seven minutes later:
Sister: No, it's not the hair. Maybe its the blue sweater, it looks good with your black hair.
Me: Yeah, maybe that's it.
(Look down at food, begin stuffing large pieces of chicken into mouth, change subject immediately)
Four minutes later:
Sister: (peers at me, eyes suddenly get wide with understanding, covers gaping mouth, starts pointing) You look good because you had SEX this weekend!!!!! Oh god, that's what it is!!!! Oh, gross!!!!
Me: (laugh uncomfortably, look around restaurant) No, no I didn't.
Sister: Yes! Yes you did. Wait! When?! NO, I don't want to know. GROSS! No, really, when? No, don't tell me! Wait a minute, does that mean when I start doing it, I'm going to look this good?
Me: Yes, take your phone off of vibrate and go get laid already and leave me alone. You spawn of Satan.
Friday, March 25, 2005
....And I'm an Alcoholic
There's nothing wrong with being an alcoholic. I'm well on my way and I think it's a good thing.
Noooo, I don't mean I sit around alone and drink myself into a stupor. Actually, I go OUT and drink myself into a stupor. A big, loud, embarrassing, falling down, "oh my god what did I do last night," "where did that bruise come from," "where's my underwear, and who the hell are you?!" kind of drunk. This is very fun.
Alcoholism helps me cope with uncomfortable or annoying situations that come up when I'm out with friends. Like being recognized from a profile I've posted on an online dating site (Last night. TWICE). "Hey, aren't you that divorced lawyer? I've seen your profile." Oh good, excuse me while I stab myself in the neck with my stirrer.
Or running into five different guys I've gone out with, in the same place. Last night. Gimme another stirrer, this one's not working.
And what the hell is up with the twenty-four year-olds trying to get some? These guys are really aggressive, even though to me they look like they're twelve. Last night I told one he's too young for me. He asked why? I told him because his breath still smells like breast milk.
Only the sauce gives me that kind of balls.
Noooo, I don't mean I sit around alone and drink myself into a stupor. Actually, I go OUT and drink myself into a stupor. A big, loud, embarrassing, falling down, "oh my god what did I do last night," "where did that bruise come from," "where's my underwear, and who the hell are you?!" kind of drunk. This is very fun.
Alcoholism helps me cope with uncomfortable or annoying situations that come up when I'm out with friends. Like being recognized from a profile I've posted on an online dating site (Last night. TWICE). "Hey, aren't you that divorced lawyer? I've seen your profile." Oh good, excuse me while I stab myself in the neck with my stirrer.
Or running into five different guys I've gone out with, in the same place. Last night. Gimme another stirrer, this one's not working.
And what the hell is up with the twenty-four year-olds trying to get some? These guys are really aggressive, even though to me they look like they're twelve. Last night I told one he's too young for me. He asked why? I told him because his breath still smells like breast milk.
Only the sauce gives me that kind of balls.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
You MUST read this
Okay, this link is hilarious. You all must read it. It's a follow-up to the 30 hottest things you can say to a naked woman. No, really.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Jacked
I just got coffee jacked. I'm really pissed. You can't TAKE someone else's coffee. It's not professional, it's not nice, and if you're taking from me, it's not safe.
There was a line at the coffee station. A LINE. That means the woman ahead of me was first, then me, then anyone else. Apparently the Coffee-Jacker missed all of kindergarten, where we learned the basic rules of social engagement: share, say thank you, please, you're welcome, and WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN.
Just because the woman ahead of me turned to talk to me about my hair doesn't negate the fact that I'm holding an empty coffee mug AT THE COFFEE STATION with the intention of leaving with a non-empty mug. But no, this interloper, this social heathen, this malfunctioning misfit comes barreling in between us at a tiny coffee station that could barely fit the TWO PEOPLE AHEAD OF HER ON LINE, grabbed a cup and FINISHED the damn coffee. She places the empty coffee pot on the burner, and turns to join our little conversation about my hair.
I turned and walked away. Of course, the solution would be to just make another pot. Why be such a baby? But that's not the point. The point is common courtesy, social graces, proper upbringing, and an awareness of your surroundings. YOU FUCKING COFFEE-JACKING RAG!!
There was a line at the coffee station. A LINE. That means the woman ahead of me was first, then me, then anyone else. Apparently the Coffee-Jacker missed all of kindergarten, where we learned the basic rules of social engagement: share, say thank you, please, you're welcome, and WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN.
Just because the woman ahead of me turned to talk to me about my hair doesn't negate the fact that I'm holding an empty coffee mug AT THE COFFEE STATION with the intention of leaving with a non-empty mug. But no, this interloper, this social heathen, this malfunctioning misfit comes barreling in between us at a tiny coffee station that could barely fit the TWO PEOPLE AHEAD OF HER ON LINE, grabbed a cup and FINISHED the damn coffee. She places the empty coffee pot on the burner, and turns to join our little conversation about my hair.
I turned and walked away. Of course, the solution would be to just make another pot. Why be such a baby? But that's not the point. The point is common courtesy, social graces, proper upbringing, and an awareness of your surroundings. YOU FUCKING COFFEE-JACKING RAG!!
Monday, March 21, 2005
Accursed
So, I was just wondering, if anyone knows how many people live in NYC? Hmmm? Anyone? And how many people do you think visit NYC on a lovely Saturday afternoon in late winter/early spring? Hmmmmm? Anyone? Anyone? I would be so bold as to guess in the millions. At least, a few million live there, and a few thousand would visit on that lovely Saturday.
And since we're on the topic of numbers, I was wondering if anyone could tell me what are the chances of my running into someone I would know on the street in SoHo.....out of the thousands of people milling about, strolling in and out of stores, getting something to eat, or just walking around? Anyone? I know what you're thinking, and you're right, the chances are probably not that high, when you take into account all the things that have to come together, the stars aligning, the minutes and steps and actions of two people working in some cosmic tandem in order for them to be in the exact same place at the exact same time.
I don't know what sins I've committed (okay, I know a few, but they're really not earth shattering) or who I've managed to piss off, how many ladders I've walked under or black cats I haven't kicked out of the way to keep them from crossing my path, but I don't understand how I COULD COME COMPLETELY FACE-TO-FACE WITH MY EX-HUSBAND, IN SoHo, ON A RANDOM SATURDAY, NOT ONCE, BUT TWICE!!!!!!!!
TWICE!!!!!!!!!!! I'm yelling (yelling when you're writing means spelling things in all caps and then emphasizing with exclamation points!!!!!!) For the love of god and all things holy! And not twice like, within fifteen minutes because he went one way and I went the other and we met around the bend. Noooooo. Twice, as in, HOURS apart. HOURS!!!!!
I'll be under my desk if anyone needs me.
And since we're on the topic of numbers, I was wondering if anyone could tell me what are the chances of my running into someone I would know on the street in SoHo.....out of the thousands of people milling about, strolling in and out of stores, getting something to eat, or just walking around? Anyone? I know what you're thinking, and you're right, the chances are probably not that high, when you take into account all the things that have to come together, the stars aligning, the minutes and steps and actions of two people working in some cosmic tandem in order for them to be in the exact same place at the exact same time.
I don't know what sins I've committed (okay, I know a few, but they're really not earth shattering) or who I've managed to piss off, how many ladders I've walked under or black cats I haven't kicked out of the way to keep them from crossing my path, but I don't understand how I COULD COME COMPLETELY FACE-TO-FACE WITH MY EX-HUSBAND, IN SoHo, ON A RANDOM SATURDAY, NOT ONCE, BUT TWICE!!!!!!!!
TWICE!!!!!!!!!!! I'm yelling (yelling when you're writing means spelling things in all caps and then emphasizing with exclamation points!!!!!!) For the love of god and all things holy! And not twice like, within fifteen minutes because he went one way and I went the other and we met around the bend. Noooooo. Twice, as in, HOURS apart. HOURS!!!!!
I'll be under my desk if anyone needs me.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Real Men DO NOT
1. Color their hair (gray is fine, go with it. You look distinguished)
2. Get highlights
3. Wax their eyebrows (three words: the Gotti boys. Nuff said)
4. Shave their chest/arms/legs (a little crotch grooming doesn't count)
5. Use self tanners
6. Get manicures or pedicures (Even I don't have the patience to watch nail polish dry)
7. Get plastic surgery
8. Get hair plugs (go bald, it's okay. A real woman will love you for it.)
9. Have a daily moisturizing routine
10. Use more hair products than I do
11. Do yoga or pilates (can't you just get on the damn treadmill and run like the rest of us, for christ's sake?!)
12. Diet
13. Have their initials monogramed on their french cuffs (puhhh-leeeeze)
14. Bake
15. Fear insects/rodents/snakes/dogs
16. Lie about their age (for the love of god, what's that all about?!)
2. Get highlights
3. Wax their eyebrows (three words: the Gotti boys. Nuff said)
4. Shave their chest/arms/legs (a little crotch grooming doesn't count)
5. Use self tanners
6. Get manicures or pedicures (Even I don't have the patience to watch nail polish dry)
7. Get plastic surgery
8. Get hair plugs (go bald, it's okay. A real woman will love you for it.)
9. Have a daily moisturizing routine
10. Use more hair products than I do
11. Do yoga or pilates (can't you just get on the damn treadmill and run like the rest of us, for christ's sake?!)
12. Diet
13. Have their initials monogramed on their french cuffs (puhhh-leeeeze)
14. Bake
15. Fear insects/rodents/snakes/dogs
16. Lie about their age (for the love of god, what's that all about?!)
Addendum
My boss, the Ambassador to Evil, wants everyone to know that I am insubordinate and I don't listen to him. And that I really am evil. He would write it on his own blog, except he doesn't have one, and needs to feel vindicated. I need to feel secure in my job.
- Evil
ps - I was instructed to inform you all that the rules at my firm are not stringent or unfair in any way. I am just a trouble-maker.
- Evil
ps - I was instructed to inform you all that the rules at my firm are not stringent or unfair in any way. I am just a trouble-maker.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Luke, I am Your Father
My boss just called himself the Ambassador to Evil. He being the Ambassador, me being Evil. He's referring to running interference for me with various departments in our firm that I've managed to piss off today due to my innate need to reject overly stringent rules and regulations.
So I pulled what I considered to be a pretty good Darth Vader imitation. He was not amused. I'm going to get back to work now, before I get fired for breathing heavy at my boss.
So I pulled what I considered to be a pretty good Darth Vader imitation. He was not amused. I'm going to get back to work now, before I get fired for breathing heavy at my boss.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
And Another Idiotic Conversation
Me: I have a date tonight with a chiropractor. I can't believe I'm going out with a chiropractor.
Best Friend: Why? What's wrong with chiropractors?
Me: They think they're doctors, but they're not. I've gone from a neurosurgeon to a chiropractor. My poor Jewish mother.
BF: Look at the bright side, he can adjust your back.
Me: I'd rather go out with a yoga instructor to adjust my back.
BF: Yes, but what will you do when you find your yoga instructor in bed with another man?
Me: Nothing.
BF: You wouldn't be upset he was cheating on you?
Me: It's not cheating if it's with another man. I'd be really upset if he cheated on me with a woman because I would constantly be thinking "what does she have that I don't" but with a man, I know what I'm missing.
BF: I'm not so sure you're actually missing that. Oh, my beautiful wife and son just got home...gotta go.
Me: .....*........
Best Friend: Why? What's wrong with chiropractors?
Me: They think they're doctors, but they're not. I've gone from a neurosurgeon to a chiropractor. My poor Jewish mother.
BF: Look at the bright side, he can adjust your back.
Me: I'd rather go out with a yoga instructor to adjust my back.
BF: Yes, but what will you do when you find your yoga instructor in bed with another man?
Me: Nothing.
BF: You wouldn't be upset he was cheating on you?
Me: It's not cheating if it's with another man. I'd be really upset if he cheated on me with a woman because I would constantly be thinking "what does she have that I don't" but with a man, I know what I'm missing.
BF: I'm not so sure you're actually missing that. Oh, my beautiful wife and son just got home...gotta go.
Me: .....*........
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Iteration
It's amazing how we encounter the same concepts or ideas over and over again, in different forms, from various sources.
About a month ago, I was talking to a good friend, and we were both depressed; finding no satisfaction in work, our personal lives and even our pretty busy social lives. None of these things had necessarily changed for the worse, we just seemed to have reached a point of malaise. And then we started the "If only" game. "If only I had a boyfriend"; "If only I could afford this apartment"; "If only I could do that for a living instead of this" I would be happy.
But then I realized what a dangerous game we were really playing. Looking back, most of the things I thought I wanted or was convinced would make me happy, ultimately never really did. Yes, being an attorney at a large firm is impressive, but it also yields very low levels of job satisfaction. I wanted to be married, and ten months later I couldn't get out fast enough. You even see it in little kids, who scream and yell and throw the most violent temper tantrums for a toy, and then once they get it, lose interest after a few hours or days of play.
So we started talking about the difference between the things that we think will make us happy versus the things that actually make us happy.
So I think this is something to consider, in order to stop the recurring feelings of disappointment and dissatisfaction. I think this involves some serious introspection. Is it a change of job, location, self? All of the above? None of the above? What will REALLY make me happy? What makes any of us really happy? Those moments where we feel total contentment, when we look around and don't want to be anywhere but that place in time. I've had too few of those, and I usually know when they're happening.
I deathly fear having to invest in self-help books (they might suck whatever low levels of intelligence I already have right out of me) so if anyone has any suggestions, I'm open. Alternatively, I could always just contact a career counselor.
About a month ago, I was talking to a good friend, and we were both depressed; finding no satisfaction in work, our personal lives and even our pretty busy social lives. None of these things had necessarily changed for the worse, we just seemed to have reached a point of malaise. And then we started the "If only" game. "If only I had a boyfriend"; "If only I could afford this apartment"; "If only I could do that for a living instead of this" I would be happy.
But then I realized what a dangerous game we were really playing. Looking back, most of the things I thought I wanted or was convinced would make me happy, ultimately never really did. Yes, being an attorney at a large firm is impressive, but it also yields very low levels of job satisfaction. I wanted to be married, and ten months later I couldn't get out fast enough. You even see it in little kids, who scream and yell and throw the most violent temper tantrums for a toy, and then once they get it, lose interest after a few hours or days of play.
So we started talking about the difference between the things that we think will make us happy versus the things that actually make us happy.
So I think this is something to consider, in order to stop the recurring feelings of disappointment and dissatisfaction. I think this involves some serious introspection. Is it a change of job, location, self? All of the above? None of the above? What will REALLY make me happy? What makes any of us really happy? Those moments where we feel total contentment, when we look around and don't want to be anywhere but that place in time. I've had too few of those, and I usually know when they're happening.
I deathly fear having to invest in self-help books (they might suck whatever low levels of intelligence I already have right out of me) so if anyone has any suggestions, I'm open. Alternatively, I could always just contact a career counselor.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Wild Kingdom
So this weekend I acted like a total TOTAL girl. I cried at two movies. TWO. Not just one. And what's worse is I cried in front of my date on Saturday.
It's this whole PMS thing. I know, as a woman I'm not supposed to blame my emotionality on the uncontrollable biological functions of my body. God forbid women fess up to not being in control of their emotions during that time of month. I personally think it's the perfect scapegoat for irrational, overly-sensitive, idiotic behavior.
I believe as women, we have a responsibility to recognize what happens to us during that time of month, and take certain precautions to avoid alienating or really pissing off every person we know or meet.
There are various options available including the following:
It's this whole PMS thing. I know, as a woman I'm not supposed to blame my emotionality on the uncontrollable biological functions of my body. God forbid women fess up to not being in control of their emotions during that time of month. I personally think it's the perfect scapegoat for irrational, overly-sensitive, idiotic behavior.
I believe as women, we have a responsibility to recognize what happens to us during that time of month, and take certain precautions to avoid alienating or really pissing off every person we know or meet.
There are various options available including the following:
- the disclaimer, "I'm getting my period, please forgive my barbaric behavior";
- pain killers and anti-bloating drugs taken in quantities large enough to immobilize a baby elephant;
- keeping the tears and/or rants and/or the desire to set inanimate objects into orbit in check by recognizing the emotion as a symptom of PMS;
- and if all else fails, sequestering ourselves for the protection of society until all psychotic and/or sociopathic tendencies are gone.
Men, the only advice I can offer is to keep a wide berth. Oh, and investing in a tranquilizer gun might not be a bad idea.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Strike Two
Okay, so last night's date, date number two for the week, was a bust. And I noticed that the guy had a weird speech thing, where he'd say "ok" three or four times after every comment I made. Sort of like Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon. Strange.
I'm sorely tempted to cancel my date on Saturday with Bachelor number three. He wants to go to the MoMa. I want to crawl under the covers and stay there until Monday morning.
But as my dear, married, baby-having, annoyingly optimistic best friend says: you can't win if you don't play the game. Easy for him to say when now it's just a spectator sport. I think he secretly, or maybe not so secretly, gets a kick out of my single life woes. There's nothing like being positive reinforcement for the married.
But even though dating is a contact sport with a high risk for injury, single life definitely has its advantages, most notably, the autonomy. Doing whatever you want, whenever you want, is a very sexy thing. And everyone knows it's always more fun to play the game than to sit around watching from the sidelines.
I'm sorely tempted to cancel my date on Saturday with Bachelor number three. He wants to go to the MoMa. I want to crawl under the covers and stay there until Monday morning.
But as my dear, married, baby-having, annoyingly optimistic best friend says: you can't win if you don't play the game. Easy for him to say when now it's just a spectator sport. I think he secretly, or maybe not so secretly, gets a kick out of my single life woes. There's nothing like being positive reinforcement for the married.
But even though dating is a contact sport with a high risk for injury, single life definitely has its advantages, most notably, the autonomy. Doing whatever you want, whenever you want, is a very sexy thing. And everyone knows it's always more fun to play the game than to sit around watching from the sidelines.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
And the Oscar Goes to......
So I was on a date last night with Mr. Play Your Cards Right. I figured I would give it one more, (and now final), chance. And the conversation turned towards a topic that should never be discussed on a second (and final) or even third or fourth date: Religion.
Our point of contention rested on the fact that I don’t particularly believe in God or any type of higher power or being that gives a shit about my day-to-day goings on. I consider myself to be Jewish, but more in a cultural sort of way. I am part of a very big, typically meddlesome, loving, loud, Jewish family whose Shabbat dinners and holidays resemble a scene out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. But I don’t practice on a personal level. By choice. A choice I’m very content with.
This was the crux of our conversation:
Mr. PYCR: But you HAVE to believe in something.
Me: No, I don’t believe in a higher power.
Mr. PYCR: Then how do you explain everything that is around you?! How do you explain creation?!
Me: I can’t explain creation. But I’m not about to make up an answer in order to explain it.
Mr. PYCR: But you HAVE to believe in something. ANYTHING! If I didn’t believe, I’d have no reason to live. I’d throw myself out of that window over there.
Me: Good thing we’re on the ground floor.
After a whole lot more of “you HAVE to’s”, and “I’d have no reason to live’s” and references to trees, the blue sky, humans, animals, life after death, the universe, rivers, technology and everything else that exists, he gave up. With the caveat that “One day, you WILL believe.”
So today's lesson is: Never date a man who is more dramatic than Nathan Lane in drag.
Our point of contention rested on the fact that I don’t particularly believe in God or any type of higher power or being that gives a shit about my day-to-day goings on. I consider myself to be Jewish, but more in a cultural sort of way. I am part of a very big, typically meddlesome, loving, loud, Jewish family whose Shabbat dinners and holidays resemble a scene out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. But I don’t practice on a personal level. By choice. A choice I’m very content with.
This was the crux of our conversation:
Mr. PYCR: But you HAVE to believe in something.
Me: No, I don’t believe in a higher power.
Mr. PYCR: Then how do you explain everything that is around you?! How do you explain creation?!
Me: I can’t explain creation. But I’m not about to make up an answer in order to explain it.
Mr. PYCR: But you HAVE to believe in something. ANYTHING! If I didn’t believe, I’d have no reason to live. I’d throw myself out of that window over there.
Me: Good thing we’re on the ground floor.
After a whole lot more of “you HAVE to’s”, and “I’d have no reason to live’s” and references to trees, the blue sky, humans, animals, life after death, the universe, rivers, technology and everything else that exists, he gave up. With the caveat that “One day, you WILL believe.”
So today's lesson is: Never date a man who is more dramatic than Nathan Lane in drag.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Things That Annoy the Living Fuck Out of Me
1. People who use LOL.
2. Being handed bills, then coins, when collecting change.
3. People who brake on the highway for no reason.
4. Men who say they’ll call, but never do.
5. Dumb people that know only one three-syllable word and try to work it into every conversation. Learn a new fucking word!!!!
6. People who offer me unsolicited advice - um, thanks for your gumball machine dispensing analysis, but try living in my head for five minutes. IT’S MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT.
7. When I have something in my teeth and no one bothers to point it out.
8. People who complain but never ever ever ever do anything about it.
9. Paris Hilton.
10. Getting hung up on.
11. People who take themselves too seriously.
13. People who repeat the same destructive patterns of behavior and then wonder why their lives never get better.
14. Teachers. They think they’re smarter than everyone else. They’re not.
15. Blazing left-wing, tree-hugging, America-hating, flag burning, pinko liberals.
16. Uneducated, one-tooth sharing, rights-infringing, overall-wearing, bigoted, closed-minded, confederate flag waving (WTF?!?!?), fundamentalist conservatives.
17. That the leader of the free world can’t pronounce NUCLEAR.
18. The French.
19. When some snot-nosed kid or young adult doesn’t give up their subway seat for an elderly person. (Makes me want to grab them by the ear and pull them out of their seat)
20. When the bottom of my heels wear down to the nail and I end up making a metallic clink-clink sound while trying to be sexy
21. When my date pronounces the food on the menu with an accent.
22. And of course, going to the gym and running into my ex-husband.
2. Being handed bills, then coins, when collecting change.
3. People who brake on the highway for no reason.
4. Men who say they’ll call, but never do.
5. Dumb people that know only one three-syllable word and try to work it into every conversation. Learn a new fucking word!!!!
6. People who offer me unsolicited advice - um, thanks for your gumball machine dispensing analysis, but try living in my head for five minutes. IT’S MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT.
7. When I have something in my teeth and no one bothers to point it out.
8. People who complain but never ever ever ever do anything about it.
9. Paris Hilton.
10. Getting hung up on.
11. People who take themselves too seriously.
13. People who repeat the same destructive patterns of behavior and then wonder why their lives never get better.
14. Teachers. They think they’re smarter than everyone else. They’re not.
15. Blazing left-wing, tree-hugging, America-hating, flag burning, pinko liberals.
16. Uneducated, one-tooth sharing, rights-infringing, overall-wearing, bigoted, closed-minded, confederate flag waving (WTF?!?!?), fundamentalist conservatives.
17. That the leader of the free world can’t pronounce NUCLEAR.
18. The French.
19. When some snot-nosed kid or young adult doesn’t give up their subway seat for an elderly person. (Makes me want to grab them by the ear and pull them out of their seat)
20. When the bottom of my heels wear down to the nail and I end up making a metallic clink-clink sound while trying to be sexy
21. When my date pronounces the food on the menu with an accent.
22. And of course, going to the gym and running into my ex-husband.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Lightning
My best friend once compared me to a cheap blender. He said, "You only have two speeds: Off and Liquefy. No in-between." He was of course, referring to my most recent infatuation with a certain neurosurgeon who, when we were together, acted like he was madly in love with me, but when we were apart, was hard put to remember my name. My behavior was less than dignified.
I'm an all or nothing kind of girl. I have very definite opinions about things. Tattoos and body piercings are low class and trashy. Period. No, I don't care if it's a picture of a heart or a flower placed on the line of your underwear where no one can see it. Chocolate was, is and always will be better than vanilla. Get over it. Ping pong is not a sport, I don't care what the Olympics has to say. Size matters. Oh. Yes. It. Does.
I guess I bring this attitude to my relationships. If I'm crazy about a guy, then I'm really crazy about him, obsessed, maybe even a little manic. I think about him all the time, analyze what he said, what he didn't say, what he could have said. I take action. I plan things, picnics, dinners, look for events that he would be interested in and buy tickets for them; I buy him things that he may mention in passing that he needed, or was thinking about getting, and wrap it up prettily attached with a hand-made card that I drew.
I even notice it in the way I feel about random, everyday things. "I loved that movie." "I hate shellfish." Lots of Love and Hate. No real Like, Fine, Okay in my vocabulary. If I describe someone I've met as shoulder-shrug okay, you can be sure that I'm pretty much ambivalent, and ambivalent in my world means its the end of the line. I won't give it another chance. I don't have that kind of patience.
I often wonder if that's why I can't find a relationship that works. My other best friend keeps trying to instill in me the "slow and steady wins the race" mentality. But I'm looking to get hit by lightning. I don't want to keep going out with shoulder shrug okay to see if anything develops, I want my knees to go weak when I see him. I want my pulse to race, I want to be frantic when he calls, and shop for hours for the perfect outfit to wear on our next date because I give a shit what he thinks. Shoulder shrug okay doesn't evoke these feelings or actions.
I met the neurosurgeon in July. The frequency of my meeting a man that feels like lightning struck me runs akin to that of lightning striking the same place twice, almost never. I'm actually on a two to three year cycle. Once every two to three years, I find him, and it strikes, and my hair stands up on end. The reason the neurosurgeon hit so hard was because he's the first one I didn't actually get. It was disconcerting, it threw me off. But at least now I have a year and nine months to plan for the next one. He's not getting away, even if I have to stand outside flying a kite in a thunderstorm.
I'm an all or nothing kind of girl. I have very definite opinions about things. Tattoos and body piercings are low class and trashy. Period. No, I don't care if it's a picture of a heart or a flower placed on the line of your underwear where no one can see it. Chocolate was, is and always will be better than vanilla. Get over it. Ping pong is not a sport, I don't care what the Olympics has to say. Size matters. Oh. Yes. It. Does.
I guess I bring this attitude to my relationships. If I'm crazy about a guy, then I'm really crazy about him, obsessed, maybe even a little manic. I think about him all the time, analyze what he said, what he didn't say, what he could have said. I take action. I plan things, picnics, dinners, look for events that he would be interested in and buy tickets for them; I buy him things that he may mention in passing that he needed, or was thinking about getting, and wrap it up prettily attached with a hand-made card that I drew.
I even notice it in the way I feel about random, everyday things. "I loved that movie." "I hate shellfish." Lots of Love and Hate. No real Like, Fine, Okay in my vocabulary. If I describe someone I've met as shoulder-shrug okay, you can be sure that I'm pretty much ambivalent, and ambivalent in my world means its the end of the line. I won't give it another chance. I don't have that kind of patience.
I often wonder if that's why I can't find a relationship that works. My other best friend keeps trying to instill in me the "slow and steady wins the race" mentality. But I'm looking to get hit by lightning. I don't want to keep going out with shoulder shrug okay to see if anything develops, I want my knees to go weak when I see him. I want my pulse to race, I want to be frantic when he calls, and shop for hours for the perfect outfit to wear on our next date because I give a shit what he thinks. Shoulder shrug okay doesn't evoke these feelings or actions.
I met the neurosurgeon in July. The frequency of my meeting a man that feels like lightning struck me runs akin to that of lightning striking the same place twice, almost never. I'm actually on a two to three year cycle. Once every two to three years, I find him, and it strikes, and my hair stands up on end. The reason the neurosurgeon hit so hard was because he's the first one I didn't actually get. It was disconcerting, it threw me off. But at least now I have a year and nine months to plan for the next one. He's not getting away, even if I have to stand outside flying a kite in a thunderstorm.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Water Cooler Talk
This is an actual conversation I had with one of my co-workers:
Me: So I went to a party thrown by a French Jew.
R: I didn't know there were French Jews.
Me: Sure, they just hate themselves.
R: Yeah, and then feel guilty about it.
Me: So I went to a party thrown by a French Jew.
R: I didn't know there were French Jews.
Me: Sure, they just hate themselves.
R: Yeah, and then feel guilty about it.
Play Your Cards Right
I'm the "play your cards right" girl. For some reason, every time I meet someone, or I'm about to be set up, those horrible little words are whispered to me with an arch look and a knowing nod. !!Warning!! in construction site orange, "don't screw this up" or you won't get this "catch" of a guy. Of course, the people offering the sage advice usually barely know the man any better than the guy at his coffee shop that makes his coffee every morning. Actually, knowing how someone takes their coffee is pretty intimate, I think, so the coffee shop guy probably has an advantage.
I often wonder if the guy being set up with me hears these things from anyone. I doubt his buddies, or his mother, or his sister's cousin's friend's roommate (who set us up) ever say that. I don't think any man ever hears, "play your cards right, dude." Well, at least not in a non-sexual conquest sort of way.
I met someone this weekend through a set-up. The guy's stats/info are such that I would normally not agree to a date, but of course, in the interest of not offending anyone and not ruining friendships among families for what could be considered my misplaced conceit, I said yes.
I must, as an initial disclaimer, say that he is a perfectly nice guy. But nice in the shoulder-shrug kind of way. The things I'm not happy with: He's ten-and-a-half years my senior. He's old fashioned. He makes lots of money (good) but does so in an industry that I don't have much respect for (bad). He's old fashioned. He's short. No really. He's old fashioned. He didn't finish college. And did I mention he's old fashioned?
Of course, my family and its accomplices probably feel that as a divorced woman, I really don't have a right to be so picky. I mean, I'm sure he was informed, in a leaned in whisper that came behind a hand "She's divorced" and then the informer, leaning back, compensated with, "but I heard she's a nice girl."
It's as if my divorce cancels out the objections I would dare to have. It doesn't matter that I'm a fifth year associate at a large NY firm, or that I own my own apartment and car, or that I'm relatively cute and have an extensive vocabulary. I should "play my cards right" and maybe I'll be able to catch someone I don't even want.
But I prefer a nice game of solitaire. Let someone else gamble with their happiness.
I often wonder if the guy being set up with me hears these things from anyone. I doubt his buddies, or his mother, or his sister's cousin's friend's roommate (who set us up) ever say that. I don't think any man ever hears, "play your cards right, dude." Well, at least not in a non-sexual conquest sort of way.
I met someone this weekend through a set-up. The guy's stats/info are such that I would normally not agree to a date, but of course, in the interest of not offending anyone and not ruining friendships among families for what could be considered my misplaced conceit, I said yes.
I must, as an initial disclaimer, say that he is a perfectly nice guy. But nice in the shoulder-shrug kind of way. The things I'm not happy with: He's ten-and-a-half years my senior. He's old fashioned. He makes lots of money (good) but does so in an industry that I don't have much respect for (bad). He's old fashioned. He's short. No really. He's old fashioned. He didn't finish college. And did I mention he's old fashioned?
Of course, my family and its accomplices probably feel that as a divorced woman, I really don't have a right to be so picky. I mean, I'm sure he was informed, in a leaned in whisper that came behind a hand "She's divorced" and then the informer, leaning back, compensated with, "but I heard she's a nice girl."
It's as if my divorce cancels out the objections I would dare to have. It doesn't matter that I'm a fifth year associate at a large NY firm, or that I own my own apartment and car, or that I'm relatively cute and have an extensive vocabulary. I should "play my cards right" and maybe I'll be able to catch someone I don't even want.
But I prefer a nice game of solitaire. Let someone else gamble with their happiness.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Master of My Domain
So a male friend of mine has decided to go cold turkey on "self-love." Again. He claims it will help make him more aggressive with the ladies, and will act as an impetus to go out there and get some. Of course, the guy is a nice guy, looking for a nice girl, to do very very not-so-nice things with, in a monogamous and consensual relationship.
I think it's going to make him blow a gasket. At the very least, his whole body will end up taking on an unattractive blue tint.
I'm going to send him internet porn to torture him. No one can resist internet porn. No one.
I think it's going to make him blow a gasket. At the very least, his whole body will end up taking on an unattractive blue tint.
I'm going to send him internet porn to torture him. No one can resist internet porn. No one.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Blog Virgin
So here I am, about to lose my cherry. My blog cherry, you pervs. I've read them before, not too many, just enough to get the general flavor. And I thought to myself, "wouldn't it be a hoot to post the things that go on in my life, rather than write emails and send them to everyone I know...." This way my humiliation can be complete; not just for the elite few to revel in, but for the masses.
Me: 29 years old, female, attorney, divorced, in the NY area. Yes, I understand, I'm not an endangered species. But there's never a dull moment in my life. Not necessarily all exciting moments either, but if it's not exciting, it's most likely humiliating, which holds a certain appeal.
I'm off to try and figure out how to make my page pretty. Because girls like pretty things. Did I just say that? I'm already making myself ill.
Me: 29 years old, female, attorney, divorced, in the NY area. Yes, I understand, I'm not an endangered species. But there's never a dull moment in my life. Not necessarily all exciting moments either, but if it's not exciting, it's most likely humiliating, which holds a certain appeal.
I'm off to try and figure out how to make my page pretty. Because girls like pretty things. Did I just say that? I'm already making myself ill.
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