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.