Thursday, April 28, 2005
Is it still arson if you set a person on fire?
I've been through the ringer with online dating sites like JDate, or as I call it, JHell. Most of the men I know call it Lay-Date. And from what I hear, for good reason. It's true that I met many men on there, (I was quite popular, if I do say so myself - I would even get recognized when I went out sometimes) but that's clearly irrelevant since I'm still getting harrassed by Smarmy-Ass for being single.
My friends would muse out loud about how totally incredible it was that I had soooo many dates and yet absolutely nothing, NOTHING would come to fruition.
"I've never seen anything like it." (translation: you are clearly a moron that shouldn't be let loose on society.)
"What do you do on these dates?" (translation: in what horrifyingly neurotic way do you scare these men out of ever wanting to see you again?)
"What do you say on these dates?" (translation: do you let them see how pathetically needy and desperate you really are?)
"Maybe you shouldn't be so open." (translation: keep your damn yap shut and your obnoxious opinions to yourself. It's bad enough you're a divorced lawyer, just sit there and look pretty.)
In my defense, I was actually very nice to almost all of the guys I went out with, including the ones who lied about their age (I thought I told you I'm really 45. I wrote 35 in my profile by mistake), their height (No, I'm 5'10", your heels are what's making you three inches taller than me), their weight (I have muscles. I do. Really. Under these extra 50 pounds, there are lots of muscles), and their intentions.
It can't be all my fault. And if it is, then there must be someone out there who'll like me for me. I mean, as soon as he gets released from the asylum.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Me: Because it's the worst word in the English language.
Me: Because it is.
Co-Worker: That's what I love about lawyers. Their ability to reason.
I wanted to tell him to "eat-me" but somehow that seemed inappropriate in a law office. Eat-me has not yet emerged as an appropriate legal rebuttal.
"Do you have anything further Counselor? "
"Yes your Honor, I would like to conclude my client's case by advising opposing counsel to eat-me. "
But I digress. In response to the above conversation I had with a co-worker yesterday, who now lovingly refers to me as BFC, I decided to research the question. Because really, who needs to do any work at the office.
The following is from Word Origins:
This word for the female genitalia dates back to the Middle English period, c.1325. (Although researchers have found a London street named Gropecuntelane from c. 1230.) Although the word cannot be traced back further than this, there are cognates in a variety of other Germanic languages, indicating a Germanic origin.
Cunt does not come from the Latin cunnus, which is also a term for the female pudenda, although a common root back in the mists of time cannot be discounted. Use of the word as term of abuse for a woman is a 20th century sense, dating to 1929.
Dictionary.com states the following:
n. Vulgar Slang
1. The female genital organs.
2. Sexual intercourse with a woman.
Notes: Offensive. Used as a disparaging term for a woman.
Used as a disparaging term for a person one dislikes or finds extremely disagreeable.
Now, thank goodness, all of your lives are complete, including smarmy-ass Co-Worker.
Monday, April 25, 2005
This is NOT what they mean when they refer to the Passover questions.
“So, are you seeing anyone lately?”
“Anyone special in your life?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
Well, besides the guy I’m fucking on the Upper West Side, no. (On the inside.)
“No, no one special. I’m not really dating right now.” (On the outside.)
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” It’s always, “What’s the matter with you.” Like I’m some emotionally disfigured Chernobyl survivor.
I counted, and I’ve either been out on A DATE or DATED fifty-two men in the past year. FIFTY-TWO. That’s an average of one a week. That’s a lot of men. And I can honestly say I’m exhausted. Because it wasn’t one date a week. It was more like two to four dates a week and that’s a lot of running around on stilettos.
“You’ve gone out with so many people, and you haven’t been able to find one guy willing to date you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Maybe you’re too picky? I mean, there can’t be something wrong with all of those guys. Maybe there’s something wrong with YOU.”
“Well, you know Grandma, I was dating for ten years before I met my ex-husband, and look how that turned out; it’s not easy to find someone to marry anymore.”
“What? You want to wait another ten years to get married? No one will marry you in ten years. No one wants to marry you now.”
Maybe the fork would look better in Grandma’s eye. (On the inside.)
“Grandma, don’t worry, I’ll find someone. I promise.” (On the outside.)
Yuk it up now God, because when I kill myself and go directly to Hell, I’m going to get all of my friends there together and then you’re in trouble. Oh yeah, I’m not afraid to threaten the big G. You goin’ down sucka!
"You forgot that the size of the cunt is also important (smaller is better). I have to say that you are a big fucking cunt.
And my Russian bride with a PhD is 10 times the woman than any American whiney bitch that I have ever seen. That goes double for J.A.P.!!!!"
Someone anonymously left me this comment in response to Friday's post: Size Matters, Get Over It.
Now I like to think that I'm the kind of person that can take criticism well, but if you're going to call me a big fucking cunt, you better have the balls to sign your name to it. Or else you come across as a big fucking pussy. And that's just not fun.
I'm sorry you're not man enough to find a bride here in America and had to resort to a mail order bride. There are many many wonderful, successful, amazing women here in the States (not necessarily all American) who would make great wives.
Also, your second to last sentence:
- And my Russian bride with a PhD is 10 times the woman than any American whiney bitch that I have ever seen,
doesn't sound quite right. Maybe you should have written:
- My Russian bride, who has a PhD, is 10 times the woman of any whiney American bitch I have ever seen.
See? Doesn't that flow better?
And I'm not sure if you're from New York or not, but it's not "That goes double for J.A.P." it's actually, "That goes double for A Jap." There should be an indefinite article before the word "Jap." I'm no English expert, I'm just saying.
Furthermore, name calling is not nice. It's really just bad manners. Especially when you're speaking to a complete stranger. I'm not sure why my post managed to get under your foreskin, but you seem pretty irritable. Have you considered yoga? Maybe meditation would be a good avenue for you to pursue. Either way, some anger management is definitely in order.
In all seriousness, comments are always welcome. Even mean or critical comments are welcome. But ANONYMOUS mean comments will get deleted from now on. This blog is about having some laughs, it's not about bringing anyone down. If you don't like what you read, "change the channel" because you and I obviously don't have the same sense of humor. (More likely that you don't have a good sense of humor - because I'm damn funny, but that's neither here nor there.)
And now back to our regularly scheduled program.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Now I'm not talking about it having the ability to cripple me, but I better be able to feel something. And I mean FEEL.
Let's be honest, the size of my ass matters. The length of my hair matters. Let's not forget the twins, Thelma and Louise. How they fill out a tight tank top matters. And I'm okay with that. But make no mistake, the male correlative is the penis, and its size is important to most women.
If you have a problem with this statement, you probably have a small pecker. But don't worry, because the size of your donger is NOT the only thing that matters to women.
For example, the size of a guy's bank account matters too. Now don't get crazy, let me say my part, and then feel free to go nuts. But in today's day and age, women are more successful than ever before, and they have the bank to prove it. Why not want a man on par?
Now I certainly don't condone those women who have nothing going on for themselves but chase men with money to secure a nice setup. (Insert Russian mail-order bride mental image here). I'm talking about the woman who works her butt off through school and at her job, and is looking for a partner.
The size of a guy's ego matters. There's a lot of swagger here in New York. And it's NOT attractive. I don't care if he can poke my eye out from across the living room with it, if he's arrogant, an eye poke is all he gets.
The size of his relationship with his mother matters. Oh dear lord, this is the worst. So many whiny, weenie, scrotum-less little boys running around, dressed up in suits. There are so many mamma's boys here in NY, and yet I'm still amazed an umbilical cord can stretch that far without breaking. I used to make little scissor motions in front of my ex's belly button. But I digress. I don't care if King Kong can climb it and swat at helicopters from the top, if a guy talks to his mom every day, I'm not going anywhere near it.
But size still matters. Because if a woman finds a great guy, and he's, um, shall we say, disappointingly endowed, that's going to be a problem. A woman may never say anything to him, but rest assured the topic is getting heavy coverage at lunch, drinks, dinner, phone calls and shopping with the girls. And the forecast is bleak.
And the motion of the ocean might help, but if you're small, I suggest you start surfing the net, asap. Once you order your bride from Russia, she'll be so happy to be here, she might wait a few months after you're married before she starts cheating on you.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
I vote blithering idiot.
While walking towards the elevator banks with a co-worker, a very handsome, very tall, very square-jawed guy with piercing blue eyes, gets out of the elevator and walks past us, checking his blackberry.
Our conversation, taking its obvious and natural course, turns into how I plan on spending the weekend spackling, sanding and painting some walls in my apartment (since it's going to rain). I mean, what else would two women in suits be talking about.
Square-Jaw, for some reason only god in heaven knows, has turned around, and is now standing behind me, listening to this INANITY. Listening to me yammer on about SPACKLE and SAND PAPER. And then, gets into the elevator.
And turns to me, in an attempt to start a normal, human-on-human conversation, and says, "You spackle?"
Clearly incapable of having a homosapien-like conversation, I respond, "Yeah, I guess, if I need to. Sometimes. I mean....uh, yeah. I guess. Uh, yeah."
Square Jaw, somewhat taken aback, but still hopeful of finding intelligent life in the elevator, tries again, "I hear guys talk about that stuff all the time, but never a young woman. "
As I start blushing furiously FURIOUSLY (like my head is about to explode off my neck) I respond, "Um, yeah. Spackle, I uh...sure. Sand paper. " And proceed to get out of the elevator.
THIS, folks, is why I'm still single. For all of my friends out there, feel free to abuse me like a substitute teacher. You know the number.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
I do not believe in god. Therefore I am a genius.
My baby sister (who's 19) can lose the cotton end of a q-tip in her ear canal. Twice. In six months. And still freak the fuck out.
That I can, and will, bump into every random person I have ever known in the past 15 years in SoHo, but will NEVER bump into the ONE neurosurgeon that I love in a very pathetic, he doesn't even remember my name, kind of way.
That everyone, EVERYONE that goes to Vegas for a bachelor party gets laid there.
That I should never, NEVER let my fiancee have a bachelor party in Vegas.
That the chiropractor I stopped dating was telling acquaintances of ours that we were seeing each other in a sort of serious way. Loser.
That a British accent will make any man 2.5 times more attractive than he was before he opened his mouth.
That an Italian accent will make me (and my friends) want to have sex with you immediately.
That I can eat obscene amounts of junk food at 3 a.m., including spicy hotdogs and pepperoni pizza in the same sitting.
That the DVD player I bought six months ago to play CDs isn't broken. All I needed to do was TURN UP THE VOLUME on the TV. I am a JACKASS.
That my baby sister is now officially prettier than I am - as referenced by former admirers of mine who have (quite vocally) decided to change camps. Bastards.
Friday, April 15, 2005
I'm not that dumb, huh?
I want to buy cowboy boots.
What happened to all of your pencils?
I'm hoping that when you leave, I'll be able to knock the wall between our offices down. Maybe put in some french doors.
[Person X launching peas from spoon. Person Y attempting to catch airborn peas in mouth]
Y: Did you shoot already? Is it in my hair?!
X: I haven't heard someone say that in years.
The mail guy moves too fast. Should have known after watching him dance at the Christmas party. You know how those Latins are.
Me: Can I borrow your BlueBook?
X: Well, how long are you going to borrow it for? Are you going to bring it back? You're not going to keep it are you?
Me: Give me the damn book.
My first legal advice to you is that you need a psychological evaluation.
The Mets have character.
The Mets don't have character, they have mullets.
"Hello, I'm calling regarding a credit to my account that shouldn't be there."
Whaaaa?!?!?! Are you crazy?
I almost tackled my co-worker, but they try to discourage wrestling in the hallways during office hours. (I'll wait until after five).
We're lawyers, for Christ's sake!!! We TAKE people's money, we don't give it back. What kind of messed up set of morals does this guy have?! He's even a REPUBLICAN!!! They have special training sessions for these scenarios, with instructional videos and practice runs. I'm shaking my head in disappointment. I expected more from him, but apparently someone was raised wrong. Very very wrong.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
I didn't RSVP to the soiree.
Secretary to the Ambassador to Evil: Why didn't you RSVP?
Me: I didn't think it was necessary.
Secretary: I've sent out FOUR emails.
Me: Listen, you sent out an email from the Ambassador. He does not make requests. It's a given that I'm coming. Just because you posed a command in the form of an invitation, doesn't make it so.
Secretary: (annoyed) Well, now you don't have a name tag.
Me: I don't? No problem, I'll just make one.
Ambassador: (running out of his office after hearing my last comment) NO! No. You can't make one. God knows what the hell you'll show up with. We'll get you a name tag. You. Are. Not. To. Make. One. Yourself.
Me: What do you think I'm going to show up with?! A piece of oak-tag tied with yarn around my neck?
Ambassador: (shaking head in resignation) I don't even want to contemplate the things that brain of yours could come up with.
So now, even though there obvioulsy won't be one, I have to invite him to the "tequila- shot table" tonight. I've never actually seen anyone have an aneurysm, but I'll be sure to post about it tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
I've used so many of those bs lines to get away from guys I can't stand anymore, the "it's not you, it's me", the "I'm not over my ex", the "I really need to focus on my career right now" crap. I never mean any of it; I always have a reason I never want to see them again, but if I verbalize the reason, I'm probably putting myself in harms way. Especially since my way of communicating is obviously so delicate.
Anyway, the first reason I had to use the horse shit line is because the guy is a chiropractor. I know, I shouldn't be judgmental, but anyone who chooses to go into any type of holistic-anything in life will probably get bitch slapped by me on a weekly basis. (Not to mention the fact that he probably couldn't get into med school). I have no patience for yoga, or candles and incense, or healing rocks and aromatherapy. Seriously, just kill yourself. I can't even stand getting a massage because they make you listen to that stupid sounds of nature crap, and no one is allowed to speak above a tone that is not 'soothing.' Turn the cd of chirping birds and gurgling streams off, give me my damn massage, and lets all get on with our day, please.
And there's a bigger reason I stopped seeing him. When I met him in December he told me he was seeing someone (in response to a direct question from me) but that she wasn't his girlfriend. Being the great attorney I am, my follow up question was whether his non-girlfriend would mind knowing that he took my number and was speaking with me. He said no, she wouldn't mind because their relationship wasn't like that. Meaning, their relationship wasn't that serious. Meaning that they weren't committed. Meaning that they date other people. Okay by me.
Over the next four months, about once a week, he would send me a text message asking how I was, or inviting me to some party or lounge or club where he'd be with his friends. (I never met him out or called him, but I would respond to his texts once in a while.) For four months, he exerted just enough gravity to keep me in a distant orbit, giving me just enough attention so that I wouldn't forget about him completely, but not enough so that I would have any expectations either.
Suddenly a few weeks ago, he showed up at a lounge I told him I would be at with friends celebrating a birthday. And then the serious phone calls started. "I really want to see you." "We have to get together." "I want to go out on a date, it's about time already." Blah blah blah. I figured, what the hell, I'd go out with him.
Turns out, the girl he was seeing was someone he was "seeing" for a YEAR. And he just stopped "seeing" her a few weeks ago. Interesting. He actually dated that poor woman for a YEAR, met me, took my number, kept in touch with me for FOUR MONTHS, and then when he finally made the decision to break up with her, decided to take me out of my four-month holding pattern.
Now, golly-gee, I don't claim to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but aw shucks, I don't think I'm that dum. (D-u-m dumb is even dumber than dumb spelled correctly.)
First off, if he's going to do something like that to another woman, there's a great possibility he could do that to me. I don't want to be "seeing" someone for an entire year and still be concerned about what the hell he's doing when he's out with his friends.
Second of all, he lied about the nature of his relationship (I know I live in jaded New York, but NO ONE dates casually for an ENTIRE YEAR!), especially since he didn't ask me out on a date until he officially stopped "seeing" the woman he claimed he wasn't "seeing" exclusively.
Third of all, and most importantly, I AM NO ONE'S BACK-UP PLAN. No fucking way, MoFo. Nu-uh. I don't think so.
But of course, I'm not about to call him a MoFo to his face, or tell him he's a total jackass if he thinks I'm not going to put two-and-two together. (I mean, I am the one with a real degree in this scenario). So instead, he gets the horse shit line. And ends up with no non-girlfriend and no back-up non-girlfriend. 'Cuz Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner. MoFo.
My mother officially lost her privileges a few weeks ago. I met a doctor from the same cultural background as myself (and I swore, SWORE, I would never EVER date someone from my culture again thanks to the demon I divorced), but he seemed nice, and so we went out a few times. Now, my general feelings towards the guy were that he's shoulder-shrug okay and maybe I should give it a chance (even though I know better). But after calling me a couple of times after our last date, he fell off the face of the earth and I wasn't inclined to pull him back up.
My mother on the other hand, asked me every day for THREE weeks whether I had heard from him, and made constant suggestions as to how I could get in contact with him without appearing desperate. She came up with schemes and plans involving common friends and acquaintances, plots to place myself in his neighborhood more often than ever before, even scripted phone conversations, you get the idea.
This is the same woman who six years ago forced me to go out with her nice Jewish stock broker, Al Mayer. He boasted to her that he'd just bought his mom a half-million dollar house and himself a brand new Benz convertible. That's all she needed to hear. The phone conversations I had with him made me very wary about the guy, but my mother was apparently trained by the teamsters, and eventually beat me down.
Turns out Al Mayer was really surprised my mom would set me up with someone who wasn't Jewish. Forkfull of penne arrested halfway to my mouth, I turn and say, "Yeah, she's cool like that" (internal monologue - Holy shit, what has she gotten me into now?!) Apparently Al Mayer's first name was short for ALI. And Mayer was shortened for some arabic name as well. Great, Jewish girl from Long Island out to dinner with an arab. Purrfect. Way to go mom.
This is also the same person who had no qualms about my dating someone my friends and I dubbed The Porn King. He was an attorney from Los Angeles, who's sister saw me at a wedding and thought we'd suit. The guy flew to New York for a Bar Mitzvah I was supposed to attend, but didn't due to what my family considered my misplaced priority on law school studies. (who needs to be a lawyer when you can just marry one?! DUH!) Of course I was brow-beaten into going out with him while he was still in town.
Ended up, the guy had some unsavory hobbies, including running a porn website on the side to "make some extra cash" and had an affinity for the ganja. Now, I'm no prude, and I would never tell anyone what to do, but smoking weed on a FIRST DATE is NOT the smartest way to make a good impression.
When I told my family about the porn site, they said that he appeared to be a very enterprising young man who knows how to make money. I see. When I told them about the weed, they blamed me for meeting him at his cousin's apartment where they smoked. "It's your fault for going upstairs" they said. Ahem.
And my mother has the nerve to be incensed that she's cut off. Get a hold of yourself woman!
It's amazing I've made it this long without getting addicted to drugs. But the padded walls in my bedroom have made a world of difference.
Monday, April 11, 2005
I stayed with my friend, who could actually be the Director of Tourism for the Miami-Dade County area. Of course, he's a New York transplant, which would explain his new love affair with southern Florida. Giving up tundra like conditions for 80 degrees and an oh-so-nice convertible can do that. His ocean-view condo doesn't hurt either.
The 'scene' in Miami and New York is pretty similar, beautiful, young people with too much money, zipping around in cars that cost more than homes, sporting watches that cost more than cars. Seriously, the women are all wearing insane outfits (I use the term "wearing" loosely because I'm not sure if artfully tied strips of cloth pass as actual clothing, but work with me) and high heeled stiletto platforms (to the BEACH - I mean really), and everyone is so damn good looking that you can't stop people watching. The restaurants even seat you outside like in France, both people facing the sidewalk - to better soak it all in. *deep sigh* Lovely.
I highly recommend a trip. Especially if you suffer from A.D.D. and have no hang-ups about being bombarded with silicon from all directions. Almost made me wish I were a lesbian.
Monday, April 04, 2005
- Scrub bathtub
- Watch E! on VH1 and then watch the same episode of E! on MTV
- Turn on laptop borrowed from work in preparation of doing work brought home from office
- Stack four tons of paperwork brought home from office neatly next to laptop borrowed from work
- Play 37 games of spider solitaire on laptop borrowed from work in preparation of doing work brought home from office
- Do nails
- Read introduction to Paradise Lost, turn on TV, watch infomercial selling rare and new buffalo nickels, $250 for a set of five. Consider new career in infomercials.
- Listen to message from baby sister advising to watch a 'documentary' on my life on channel 37. Turn to channel 37. Watch Misery.
- Play four more games of spider solitaire
- Attempt to take shower, wrap leg in towel, cover with plastic bag, secure with rubber band. Realize that cast will still get wet. Decide to take bath instead, with injured leg hanging off side of tub. Almost drown. Realize being clean is not worth my life. Get out of evil tub.
- Talk to mom, who is on the beach in Miami with her girlfriends for the weekend
- Check HBO on Demand for movies or new Sex and the City episodes. Find no movies of interest that haven't already been seen, new episodes of Sex and the City don't start until Tuesday.
- Re-check HBO on Demand three minutes later
- Seriously reconsider drowning in tub
- Wear fat pants to work on Monday