Like Baseball, There's NO Crying At Work

Crying at work is undignified. It is even more undignified when you are a grown woman who is an attorney at a major New York City law firm, and you have a view of the Statue of Liberty from your office. (For some reason, I think the view matters. Please, bear with me, I'm not well in the head right now.)

Secretaries cry. Secretaries live lives of emotion, of children they talk about and bring to work to visit, of parties they went to with their husbands, of food they made and brought in for everyone to try. Lawyers do not cry. We are professionals, we are the ones who can't be bothered with the trivialities of life, like a heart that is breaking. We have work to do. We have hours to bill.

There is no crawling under your desk and curling up into a ball and crying like your puppy died. Get a hold of yourself woman. Pick your forehead up off the desk, pull out your files and do your work. And please, please, please, turn off Air Supply. Geez.

I am so despondent, that I actually did the unthinkable. I wore jeans to the office. JEANS for god's sake. (And new converse sneakers - which are quite fetching...that's for you Scotty). And I look tired, even though it's not from what I am normally tired from - out drinking myself into oblivion - but rather, because I was home crying. Crying at home, in the dark, where no one can see you, is ok. Crying at work is like peeing in public. You should be arrested for it.

I'm really actually quite disgusted with myself. I expected a lot more than this pathetic, maudlin response. Please. How many heartaches have I been through? And I managed just fine. No problem at all. Eventually. It's just that the pain never lessens with experience. It's just as acute, just as severe, and just as debilitating. Which also makes me even more disgusted with myself.

When I was younger and a relationship ended, I always felt that it was better to have had the experience, and have the euphoric feelings and then get hurt if I had to. Now, I'm not so sure. Now I'm tired. I'm tired of failure.

I was thinking of just becoming a lesbian, but women are a bigger pain in the ass than men. So then I thought about becoming a nun, but that wouldn't work out so well, with the whole, I-don't-believe-in-Jesus thing. And seriously, how can you 'marry' a man that's been dead for thousands of years? I have needs and I'm not keen on flying solo. Although Duracell would have a great year.

But I did predict that this would happen. Because if I'm anything, I'm realistic. So I'm off to feel sorry for myself, when in reality I kinda have no right to, but you'll forgive me, since I've already gotten sick in the garbage can, and now, I'm off to get sick at home, and feel sorry for myself, in the most pathetic way possible, in ways you should never feel sorry for someone, even if they spell sorry soffy because they're too drunk to know better. Because being drunk, which is what I am right now, is the best thing you can do when your heart is breaking. It dulls the pain. And it also makes it hard to see your screen. Irrelevant, clearly, but still. So I'm going to bed now, after lots and lots of alcohol at a lunch that turned into a four hour drink fest. Hopefully I'll wake up sober and ok. Hopefully. And to all, a Happy New Year. May this year bring you all everything you wish for and dream for. You all deserve the best life has to offer. And you deserve to never throw up in your work garbage can, like me. But if you are to throw up, may it be there than anywhere else, because then you'll just humiliate yourself, and thats no way to start the new year....

When Will I Ever Learn

I believed every word you said. I believed every emotion you professed to have. I believed that you loved me unconditionally. Until you stopped. And you drew your fake line in the sand, after the walls we already surmounted.

I knew better than to believe when I first met you. You worked to disabuse me of that. You worked hard, and you fought to get my unconditional love. The love, that once I gave it, I could never take back.

And now, you have your line. Your stupid insignificant line. And you will obstinately stand behind it, no matter what I say or do. You refuse to erase the line, and work with me. Compromise with me, decide with me. Meet me somewhere in between the line I left behind and the line you stand behind.

It doesn't matter to you that if I cross over to your side, I will lose myself completely. And you will in turn lose the woman you fell in love with. Or at least, you claimed to be in love with. You claimed you loved me more than your own life, more than anything else, feelings you never had before and will never have again, that you would be devastated if I left you, that you would never recover.

Yet you still have your line. This line that has nothing to do with us right now. This stance based on guilt and fear, of obligations you think you have to others.

And you won't give me hope. You won't try. You only prolong the inevitable. You cruelly leave me hanging in the wind, terrified of losing you, knowing I will, but somehow praying for a miracle. Praying that for once, the love is real, and the man is strong, and I'm not a fool for believing. At least not this time. Not again.

But I am a fool. And you are a coward. And so, we both must lose everything.

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.