Thursday, December 28, 2006

Day 5,674,758,320

Boyfriend still home with broken leg. Doctor predicts cast to stay on for another month.

Prospect of spending life in maximum security Greek prison more and more appealing.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Ahhhh, the holidays....

Well, it's the holiday season again everybody, and I wanted to wish all my friends and non-friends out in blog world a very Merry Christmas. And remember, the Jews killed Jesus.

And we'd do it again.

Ho ho ho!!!!!

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Conversation you shouldn't have with a JEW

It's the biggest thing since the birth of Christ.

The birth of Christ was the biggest thing ever so far?

Well, you know honey, a billion people can't be wrong....

Um, using the "A billion satisfied customers from McDonald's" motif to validate your religion may not be WHAT JESUS WOULD DO.

Nurse Ratched was just misunderstood, silly

So, I'm not exactly Florence Nightingale. I barely have the patience to take care of myself, much less a 200 pound five year old masquerading as an adult.

See, my boyfriend was in a terrible car accident last Saturday. (He was on the shoulder of the highway, under the hood of his car fixing something, and was rear-ended by an 18-wheeler) Luckily, he managed to get away with only three stitches and a broken right foot.

Thing is, he's been home, in bed with that broken foot for the past week and a half. And it's been a week of "Honey, could you please bring me/get me/put for me/take for me/make for me/fix for me......" and I'm starting to think maybe I should go find that truck driver and ask him to finish the job.

It's not like he can't get around on his crutches, or go out and take care of errands when someone drives him, or isn't capable of making something to eat when we have an argument and he's not speaking with me.

But he prefers to lay in bed and ask, very prettily, for whatever it is that strikes his fancy. And the food orders?! "Um, I'll have two eggs over easy, and some sausage, but cut up this time, and home-made french fries, and toast with coffee, but filter coffee, and make sure you put enough sugar this time."

HOME-MADE FRENCH FRIES?!?! What am I in the army? Standing around peeling potatoes and deep frying them in the middle of the day for just ONE of his meals?!

Getting hit by a truck is nothing compared to what I'm capable of.

Or the, "What fruits do we have?" "We have apples, oranges, bananas and grapes." "Oh good, can you make me a fruit salad please?"

Fruit salad? FRUIT SALAD? Am I in the geriatric wing of the apartment? You want me to peel and chop fruits into bite-sized pieces for you? Do I look like June Cleaver? Has any part of my personality given you the impression that I'm NOT the type of woman who will put razor blades in your food if you piss me off?

Or the, "Can you get me a beer?" And then, the food arrives. "Um, honey, did you forget my coke? You know I only drink coke when I'm eating." And then, once we're finished eating, with the coke and the beer STILL ON THE TABLE, "Um, honey, can you please get me some water? I only drink coke with food you know, and I don't feel like more beer."

I will sodomize you with the broken end of the beer bottle if you ask me for one more thing.

I won't even get into the fact that there are people here four to five nights a week that I get to cater to as well. Of course, I think he has them here because he knows after an entire day of fetching, I'm closer to killing him at night. A buffer if you will. Like I've ever let the notion of witnesses stop me.

And if anyone dares write me a comment complaining that I should have more compassion and all that crap, then I hope your spouse gets hit by a truck and then we'll see whose significant other dies of "complications" first.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Hanging up my disco shoes

So there are certain social lows I've reached in my life. Let's be honest, High School was a four year social low.

But somehow I managed to escape the Badminton Team, the Debate Team, the AP classes and a dateless Prom night to build a new life.

Unfortunately, no matter what you look like on the outside, once a nerd, always a nerd.

Last night, on my first foray out in Athens alone to meet a group of ex-pats, I find myself sitting in a Starsucks, KNITTING.

A group of lovely young women, sitting around, drinking coffee, chatting and knitting. They were not nerds, but we were doing something painfully nerdy.

They were also unnaturally nice. I mean, there was no backbiting, no snarkiness, no one made fun of anyone else. They encouraged each other, told stories, complimented each other, AND THEY ACTUALLY MEANT IT. I realized then I was in the wrong place.

Hell, I mean even when someone left, they sat around and talked about how nice she was, how great she was. No one said anything bad about her. What the hell is that?! When a woman, sitting with other women leaves first, she's just opened herself up to ridicule. This is a sacred social rule!

And these girls broke some sacred social rules. The first being, you never put yourself in a public place where others can point and laugh at you. Unless tequila is involved. The second is, you are never simply nice. Some sort of social politics must be involved, gossip, backbiting, envy. You know, the things that make you friends.

And here I am sitting in a Starsucks, knitting. Of course, I picked up the knitting pretty quickly because I USED TO KNOW HOW. I was probably knitting on Prom night, at home, alone. That must be it. I'm suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

Maybe I'll go to Gucci today, to be treated poorly by the sales staff. That'll put the universe back in order.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Sleeping Beauty

I have decided that the reason my boyfriend can go into a slumberous, immediate sleep the minute his head hits the pillow during or after a fight is because the XY chromosome is missing that extra extension of the XX chromosome housing the gene that keeps me awake and SEETHING for hours in bed.

Now, it could be any kind of fight; the "Fine." "Fine!" "FINE!" "FIIIIIIINE!!!!!" kind of fight; or the simultaneous screaming "I hate you, you jerk!" "You're a pain in the ass!" "I can't believe I'm actually dating you!" "One more sound out of you, and I'm going to toss you over the balcony!" that ends abruptly into an uncomfortable, charged silence; or the, "You did WHAT?!" "But..I..." "WHAT?!" "Oh YEAH? Well what about the time you..." "Don't you even bring that up. That has nothing to do with this!" "Yes it does!" "Shut up." "You shut up." "No, you shut up." "No, you." "Aaaaggggghhhhhhhhh!"

It could be any type of fight and yet within mere seconds I hear the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing. Now I don't know what the hell, or how the hell, or what adolescent boys who are trapped in the bodies of grown men dream about, be it race cars, or porn stars, or tools or whatever, BUT I AM NOT FINISHED WITH THIS FIGHT.

I'm tossing, I'm turning, I'm flopping around, deep sighs, staring at the ceiling, staring evil thoughts into the back of his head. I get up, get some water, come back, make a rucus. Nothing.

If I thought it would do anything, (like startle him awake or scare him or even just piss him off), I'd hit him in the head with the pillow while he slept. But really, the results of trying to reason with him while conscious or comatose are the same. So why even bother. Jerk.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Et tu Discovery Channel?

As you would imagine, living in Europe affords one certain benefits. Like cool fashions, a more social atmosphere, a more relaxed, laid back attitude.

It also offers certain surprises. Things you wouldn't really think about. For example, when you get your satellite cable set up, you would probably be excited about access to English speaking channels, like MTV, E!, National Geographic, and even three HBO-like movie channels, to name a few.

You would probably not anticipate that starting at midnight, all these relatively lovely, entertaining channels begin to air pornography. Tons and tons and hours upon hours of pornography. And not soft porn you watch on Skinemax. No no. Real, full on, bangeroo porn. Porn that offends even my not-so-tender sensibilities.

The other night, I started watching E!, which was airing what I originally thought was a show about the Cannes Film Festival. Silly silly little old me. It was almost midnight. Of course it wasn't about the Cannes Film Festival, it was about the Cannes PORN Film Festival, replete with full-on nudity and simulated and not simulated sex acts. Duh!

So I flip, and start to watch the Girls Next Door, the show about Hugh Hefner's lovely three girlfriends. Um, except here, the three lovelies were in the shower together, soaping each other up, and down, and back up again. All nude, obviously, and nothing blurred out. Tits, ass and everything (EVERYTHING) else in full view and glory.

So I think, idiotically, maybe a nice movie. Um, yeah. Zoom in, a girl getting the living daylights banged out of her, with the camera practically up her vagina along with the guy's penis.


Aaahhhh, the Discovery Channel. I love LOVE love the Discovery Channel. The Discovery Channel won't let me down. It never does. Even it's European cousin can't be that bad.

And then, my little heart breaks as we endeavor down the "scientific" road to human genitalia and the various plastic surgery options available for women to fix their breasts, their labia majora, their labia minora, the vaginal canal, with a camera obtrusively prying into a woman's actual body parts for demonstration. Of course, what educational show would be complete without discussing penile implants, using a human model's penis for full effect.

And this whole situation is worsened because my boyfriend is sitting right next to me, while I cringe at the TV, feeling like a fourteen year-old watching a movie with her parents when an uncomfortable sex scene comes on.

I'm not against porn, but I prefer my porn to be regulated, like, if I want to watch something, I'll surf the net, or rent it, or even buy it, and then, I can control my porn viewing. But indiscriminate porn? Just porn all over the place, with tits and ass and pussy and dick getting thrown at me from all angles? Not so much.

I mean, if I really wanted to relive uncomfortable, awkward, clammy-handed experiences, I would just go back to high school.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

I don't know how some of you feel about baby talk, but I know how you should feel. You should hate it, and find it revolting. Because it is.

I can't stand baby talk. I think it's ridiculous. It should be relegated to three year old girls in pink dresses holding teddy bears who haven't been able to master full sentences and enunciation yet. After that point, it should be beaten out of anyone that tries to use it. With the buckle end of the belt.

Grown women and MOST IMPORTANTLY MEN OF ANY AGE should never partake in baby talk. At no time ever.

I've heard grown women, (and by grown women I mean anyone who can dress herself) baby talk to their fathers and boyfriends. I almost fell over. This perfectly articulate woman will get her father or boyfriend on the phone, and suddenly morph into some cloying, childish idiot, speaking in a saccharine sweet voice twelve octaves higher than normal. What circle of hell have I just fallen into?

And people who baby talk to babies and address them in the third-person. Are you kidding me?! "Does Dougy Wougy wanna go outsidey widey?" Oh my god. That, THAT is child abuse. The child might as well be raised by apes in the Bronx zoo. What's the difference at this point.

And the worst, WORST, WORST!!!!!! is when a grown man baby talks. What are you doing?! What is that?! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

You might think I feel this way because I'm a heartless bitter bitch. Well, it's actually because I'm an adult that can communicate thoughts and ideas at a level not relegated to people who are still getting their asses wiped by their parents.

Men should never baby talk to a woman. It is not attractive, it is not cute, it is not tender. It is annoying and emasculating. Get a hold of yourself man. Women do not swoon over a man who wants to know if she wants another bitey witey of the dessert. Put the forky worky down before I stab you with it in the necky wecky. Baby-talking jackass.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

A test run in preparation for the real last hurrah

So at a certain point in a woman's life, she usually stops behaving like a wild teenager, she stops going out all night, drinking herself into oblivion on a random Tuesday, she doesn't show up to work smelling like alcohol, nursing a terrible hangover, she manages to keep her dinner down, she can explain all the bruises and random sore spots on her body, she's able to be productive and concentrate on her work, she's able to recall the events and conversations of the previous night, and she basically carries herself with at least a modicum of self-respect, self-control and self-possession.

I, sadly, have yet to reach that point.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Leaving on a jet plane, only to probably come crawling back in a month

So you know that whole thing, when you meet someone, and you feel this connection and familiarity, even though you just met, and you can talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing?

And you're both so excited about each other, and you end up in love a few months later? And then after being in love for over a year, the someone you met decides to ask you to pledge to spend your life with him even if it means that you have to pick up and move your whole life to another country? And he tells you that he wants to take care of you, and wants to have children with you, and wants to wake up next to you everyday?

And because you're being asked on a beautiful island, with the person you're a love-sick puppy over, you respond with a googly-eyed, adoring and excited yes?

And when you return home, you spend two months lying and involving accomplices to get approval from your co-op board to rent out your apartment, you find temporary legal work, you find normal, well adjusted tenants who won't turn your home into a crystal-meth lab, you bargain and haggle with movers so that you don't have to sell any organs to pay for your move, you deal with the (NON-RESPONSIVE) embassy of the country you're moving to, because really, government workers are utterly useless no matter where they're from, and you basically need to check yourself into the hospital from the stress of it all, and still have to say goodbye to your family, your friends, your job all for this chance at building a life with the person you consider your other half?

Yeah. That whole thing is just utterly idiotic. The most moronic, sappy, disgusting, stupid story I've ever heard. That person should really just kill themselves. Anybody have a gun I can borrow?

Monday, October 16, 2006


I have an office mate now. I haven't had an office mate since I was a first year associate.

She's great. We've been working together for three weeks. She's Korean, and therefore obviously much smarter than I am. I think our boss is catching on. Asians. Always ruining the curve.

We're madly in love. I know, you're all thinking that it's too early to fall in love. But it's not. I love her, and she loves me. Except she refuses to tell me how old she is. She claims to be in her mid 30's and thinks that's old. Well, of course it's old. But being old is nothing to be ashamed of. We're working on her self-esteem.

She even speaks Korean. Well, the only person she actually speaks Korean with is her mom, so she actually yells Korean.

I tease her all the time by asking for a manicure.* She's a Dartmouth and Georgetown graduate taking shit from me. That alone proves there's no god.

It's nice to have female friends. Well, at least so far it's nice. Once the boss catches on that she's a genius, making my stupidity even more apparent, it's going to suck to have to break into her computer and leave incriminating emails. Again. But hey, getting ahead isn't about making friends. It's about eliminating the competition.

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.

*For those of you not from New York, the Koreans have cornered the market on Nail Salons. Damn Korean mafia.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Office Stalker II, because sometimes, a girl needs more than one dick

So if it's even possible, I've managed to acquire another office stalker. This stalker, Stalker II, is not like Stalker I. He's not overtly sexual and convinced of his own male prowess. His behavior is just strange. Even by lawyer standards.

He "stops by" all the time and hovers, like the space ship that dropped him off, trying to make conversation. He comments on the view all the time. Going so far as to categorize it as THREE DIMENSIONAL. Yes, he did.

Usually, he just stands and stares uncomfortably, without saying anything. Just stands. Stares. Silent.

He barges into my office, (no knock), to chat (or stand, and stare. Stare silently), when I'm clearly working. Or at least pretending to be so engrossed in whatever is on my screen that not even a naked Clive Owen could distract me.

He refuses to acknowledge any of my GO AWAY signals: the monosyllabic responses, the-one sided conversation, the lack of eye-contact, the repeated refusal to go anywhere with him, the stapler I threw at him. Nothing.

I recently found out that Stalker II stalks many women in the firm, including the receptionists and secretaries. It's a relief to find out the severed body parts he plans to store in his freezer could come from any of us. The bigger the pool, the smaller my risk of ending up a chance encounter in an alley gone very VERY wrong.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Inebriated Lunchtime Banter

Me: You know what I've noticed?

Friend: What?

Me: I've notice that married men have a wandering eye. Do you know how many married men I catch checking me out?

Friend: I'm married. I don't have a wandering eye.

Me: Really?

Friend: Yeah, I look straight at all the hot women.

Friday, October 06, 2006

Next stop - The emergency room

You know, I really don't understand those selfish people, those ridiculous people that get sick on a train and instead of getting off, choose to remain on the train and await medical assistance. What? The seat on the train is any more comfortable or sanitary than the platform floor? You're fooling yourself if you think so.

These people need to get off the train and wait for the paramedics, or firemen, or Superman, or whoever it is that comes to save them. I mean, does the searing chest pain of a heart attack feel any less painful if 500 people are forced to wait it out with you? Let's be honest here. Cramps? Nausea? Wouldn't they feel more comfortable stretched out on the train platform rather than cramped up in a crowded car, receiving evil looks from passengers who wish they would just get on with it and die already so we can roll their body out of the car and get to work?

I'm never going to get back the 15 minutes I lost this morning. Never. That's 15 minutes of billing time. Or net surfing time. Or whatever time, but either way, IT WAS MY TIME. And now it's gone.

So I think as commuters, we need to make a concerted effort to keep our problems to ourselves and be more respectful of our fellow commuters. It's a fast paced world and people are busy. Water broke? Waddle your way off the train, Mamma. Someone will help you soon. Hopefully. Whatever.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Lost Opportunities

I generally write about my own humiliation, because really, there's just so much material. But today, I get to write about someone else's humiliation which will be a refreshing change I think.

See, I usually take the same train every morning, give or take the odd mad-dash, barely dressed, hung-over race to the office that occurs anywhere from once a month to three or four times a week. I recently met someone that I've been seeing on the train since January (minus my three month stint in Greece).

He's very nice, but it took him from January to August to say hello. That's sweet, in a third grade kind of way. But still sweet. We're now friendly, sitting together on the ride, chatting, talking about his terrible taste in music. (Since I know he'll read this, I think I should reiterate that he really has TERRIBLE TASTE IN MUSIC).

When I saw him on the train after I got back from Greece, he seemed so surprised to see me again, and even commented that he thought I had moved out of my building. I told him that I was only away for the summer and back to the old grind.

Yesterday on the ride home, he decides to tell me a story.

Turns out, a few months ago, he met his friend and her real estate agent in our neighborhood, to look at apartments. Apparently, the agent seemed to know everyone and he asked her if she knew of a girl who lived in my building, with long, straight black hair (I have long straight black hair), thin (I am relatively thin), and about 5'6" (I'm almost 5'6"), because she used to take the train in the mornings, but he hasn't seen this girl all summer.

Sure, replies the real estate agent. That's Shari, but Shari just moved recently.

So my friend decides to write Shari a letter. A Lost Opportunity Letter hoping to reach her because he thinks this woman he used to see on the train has moved and is never coming back. A letter that says, you know, I've seen you on the train in the mornings since January, and never got around to saying hello. I'm pretty shy. Wondering if maybe you want to take a chance, I'm interested in getting to know you...... That sort of putting yourself out on a limb, hoping lightning won't strike your particular tree (but of course it will) thing.

So, um Shari, if you're reading this, I believe you have a letter that belongs to me.

And if you're the real estate agent reading this, watch your back, because my friend has a beat-down with your name on it.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Office Stalker Quotes of the Day - Weekly Wrap Up

Am I ever going to see your boobs?!

I love anal. I bet I could make you love anal too.

You know, you just have to say the word, and you could be having sex with ME in three minutes.

Come on, just give me a little peek….

Wanna touch my muscle? Come on, touch it.

You know, I actually feel really really sorry for you that you'll never experience the mind-blowing, life altering sex you could have with me. But I guess I HAVE to believe you when you say you're in love with someone else.

This girl I went out with sent me a text. She's really into me, but I'm just not interested, so I told her I'm in dating mode and not relationship mode. She became VERY upset. Doing the right thing is so hard. Women misinterpret my charm and warmth etc (stuff I can't write in an email …) they fall for me. I feel awful about it.

Just one boob? How about only the nipple?

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Chag Same'ach - Or - Where can I hide out until this is all over

It's that time of year again. It's the Jewish Holiday Season. Replete with all the familiar and endearing family dysfunction it brings.

It used to be that celebrating Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was about family, new beginnings and resolutions, plans for an even better and more fulfilling life.

At some point all the spiritual meaning behind the holiday was replaced with something considered far more important: My ability to land a husband.

The new focus of the holiday was on what to wear to Temple, which Temple service to attend, to make sure to go to the one where all the young people are, and not to forget to make hair and nail appointments prior.

A holiday meant to bring a fresh start, to help us grow as people, to force us to reflect on who we were and who we want to become, had turned into an auction. Temple was no longer a place for prayer and communing with god, it was a place where prime grade A beef was for sale to the highest bidder. And I was the cow. Actually, not just me, but all of my female friends. We were a herd.

Now, I haven't been to Temple since I got married and never went after my divorce. But my mother is on a kick to get me back there. She thinks I might meet someone. I keep telling her I have someone. She says he doesn't count, because he's so far away. I told her that I'm moving there soon. She told me that as long as I'm not there yet, everything is fair game. Including meeting someone HERE, in Temple.

I can't argue with Jewish Mother Logic. And I've never even met anyone at Temple. Never. Not once. Why my mother thinks a miracle will happen this year, I don't know.

I'll outmaneuver her. There's so much fresh meat on the market right now, that parading old, used cow will only be humiliating. And anyway, someone's already bought this cow, he's just waiting for shipment.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

I only think I live alone

So there was an insect in my bedroom last night. Not a regular bug. Not a little baby bug that you could confuse with a piece of lint, until it starts to move. No. Not like that.

More like a bug that survived Chernobyl. It might have been smoking a cigarette and flipping channels from my bed when I walked in. Something that size owes me rent.

Now, I'm not afraid of mice, or snakes, or rats, or lizards or anything of that type. But I am deathly afraid of insects.

And, I don't kill bugs. First, because I'm afraid to get close enough to do the killing. Who knows, it might jump onto my face, crawl up my nose, and embed itself in my brain, laying eggs and having dinner parties. Second, because I try to avoid the crunch they make when you kill them. Third, because I'm not a fan of the carnage-clean-up. Bug body parts could go everywhere, legs, antennae, a wing or something equally ridiculous could end up inside one of my shoes. Just the IDEA of that makes my head hurt.

Since I live alone, I had to devise a way to deal with this. So, my brilliant McGyver mind has come up with the most genius of plans. I TRAP the bug under a bowl. Preferably clear tupperwear. Hopefully tossing with aim accurate enough from four feet away to land right on top of it. And then, I just wait until it starves to death. I'll leave that bowl there for weeks if I have to. I don't care.

Now I say clear tupperwear because there have been times when I've trapped a bug under something opaque, and when, three weeks later I went to remove the bowl and the carcass, I found nothing NOTHING underneath. Oh. My. God. That just means it's waiting somewhere in a dark recess of my apartment to do the crawl up my nose, eggs, dinner party thing.

I know it sounds cruel to starve an insect to death, especially an insect whose size requires it travel with a valid passport, but then, it's also cruel to stab it with my stiletto. And really, why get bug insides on my pretty stilettos? So now, I have a pet. A pet on death row. I think I'll call him Stanley.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Technology IS your friend

My office stalker was really mad the other day because his date cancelled on him the day of, via email. He got all persnickety and sent her a nasty-gram because he felt he had to "stand up" for himself against her "rude behavior. She should have at least had the courtesy to call."

They had only been on one date and she wasn't canceling for some esoteric, non-informative (i.e., she found something better to do) reason. She just had to work late.

I told him to stop getting his panties in a bunch, he was acting like a Sheila, especially since he was dating three other women. She doesn't owe him anything after one date. He was just bent because he spent $100 to try and impress her.

If it's perfectly ok to set up a date via email (which it is), then it's perfectly ok to cancel via email. People break dates all the time that way. Hell, people actually break-up using text messages. "things rnt wrkn out good luck." "ur not 4 me, peace."

People aren't brave. We're a bunch of candy-ass pansies. If I can avoid talking to a person about breaking a date, OF COURSE I'm going to use whatever other means I have. I don't want to hear disappointment, I don't want to open myself up to questions, or have him try and persuade me to go out, or even worse, deal with criticism or abuse he might hurl my way.

I once called a guy to break a date the day before. His head almost exploded. "I can't believe you would behave this way. How could you be so rude to break a date the day before we're supposed to go out. Shame on you."

I was like, dude, put down the crack pipe. WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET.

You + expectations ≠ reasonable.

I've even gone so far as to blatantly ignore calls from guys I went out with that are calling for another date. Instead, I send a simple, "It was nice meeting you, but I don't think we're a good match" fuck-off email. I don't want to answer that phone. I don't have the balls to tell a guy I don't want to see him again to his face, or ear, as it were.

Men don't have to deal with this. If they go out with a girl they don't want to see again, they just don't call. So simple. It's us girls that have to do the 'let him down easy if he's interested' chiki-chiki boom avoidance dance.

I would never dream of saying something to a guy who breaks a date with me, besides, "Okay, not a problem." There's no chance I'm going to go out of my way to send him a nasty-gram, or call him and show him I'm upset. That's the kind of humiliation you reserve for when alcohol and heavy narcotics can be blamed. I don't understand people, like my office stalker, who feel it's within their right to be rude or nasty because of the means or timing someone used to break a date. Have some pride, man.

Once, a guy I really liked broke our second date half an hour before we were supposed to meet. Exactly one hour after I just spent tons of money on a new outfit. He never called me again. Two days later I saw him arm-in-arm with another woman walking down the street.

I never said anything to him about his mode of date-break. Anything I could have said wouldn't have made him feel bad, and would have only served to make me look desperate and somewhat mentally unstable. And if I wanted him to know I was mentally unstable, I would just cut to the chase and show him my blog.

Rejection is one thing. But sending nasty emails, or text messages or calling the person and bawling them out because they cancel a date in a way you don't like, only reaffirms their initial conclusion that you are not someone they want to go out with. You can’t force people to behave the way you want. And trying to impress your ideas of proper behavior on someone else only stinks of improper behavior on your part anyway.

Of course, my office stalker doesn't get this. In order to make himself feel better after he sent her the nasty-gram and left the how-dare-you-phone-message, he came into my office and asked me to sit on his lap. And call him Daddy. Clearly his indignation at being treated improperly is teaching him fundamental life lessons.

Friday, September 08, 2006


So, my office stalker and I are slowly but surely leaving the harassing, oh my god I need a shower after what he just said relationship and are entering much friendlier ground.

At first, when I told him I'm in a relationship, he really didn't seem to care and couldn't understand how I wasn't feeling this "connection" between us. He kept trying to convince me that something is "there" and I'm just too shy to admit my true feelings.

He would also try to stand uncomfortably close to me, with the obvious purpose of having some part of his body touch some part of my body, but still pretend that it was an accident.

So I basically told him that if the world were flooded in urine, and he was the last person alive hanging on to the last standing tree, I wouldn't touch him in order to save myself from drowning. He's slowly getting it.

The thing is, he doesn't really want me. He just wants what he wants, and he's peeved he's not getting immediate satisfaction. He's currently dating at least four women and meets new women everyday (internet dating sites - not like shooting fish in a barrel, more like nuking fish in a barrel).

He tells me stories about the girls he meets and dates. I know he's not lying because everything sounds suspiciously similar to my own painful internet dating experiences, except this time, I'm seeing it from the male perspective. Which, I must say, is information I really could have used WHEN I WAS GETTING PLAYED.

Once in a while, in the middle of his date rotation recap of women for the weekend, "Stacy on Friday at 8, Judy at 10, Melanie on Saturday for coffee, Jessica for dinner, and a brunch with Amy on Sunday....." he'll stop, and look at me intently, and exclaim, "How can you possibly not want me?"

To which I can only respond, "I don't know, but you're getting harder and harder to resist."

Wednesday, September 06, 2006


We all have a mental checklist of what we want in a partner. The problem is, when we actually find that person, they don't necessarily fit into that checklist.

I had a really great friend in law school. She was a fantastic girl, very bright, very fun, very cool. She was also, by self-admission, not a very "nice" girl. She had a baby at 16 that she gave up for adoption, and had some loose morals about sex. To the point where most of our male friends likened an experience with her to tossing a hot dog down a hallway, or giving a whale a tic-tac. You get my drift.

She ended up getting married to a devout Christian man, who at the age of 26 or 27 was a virgin until their wedding night. Who would have thought that the girl "who might as well charge for it" would marry a virgin.

That's the problem. God has a sicker sense of humor than any of us. I wouldn't date a man who lived in New Jersey because I considered him locationally challenged. Well, hardy fucking har har, I manage to find someone ON A DIFFERENT CONTINENT. And not only that, but my list, you know the one where he has to be Jewish, and older, and fit perfectly with my family?

Yeah, not so much. Why do I even bother. My guy might as well be a fucking alien at this point, he's so far away from my list. I didn't know I lived in Demento World, but I should have.

But I'm still very lucky to find him. Well, actually, I'm not sure there's anyone left for me to date....

But in all honesty, sometimes, the criteria we use to find happiness are the very things that actually keep us from finding happiness. So I'm trying to learn to readjust my vision, and who knows? This relationship might last five minutes longer than my marriage. A whole six minutes people!!!! That's progress.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Things even your best friend shouldn't know about you

I know that if I ever lost my ipod, I would be too ashamed to ever try and get it back.

Because the person who found it would know I not only listen to Air Supply, Wham, Bon Jovi and Neil Diamond, but I also might have a song OR FIVE by Barry Manilow.

I may not admit this to people who actually know me, but Barry ROCKS!!!!

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Babies R NOT Us

There's a guy at my office whose wife just had a baby. He stands outside my office, everyday, talking to the secretaries, everyday, about his baby, everyday.

If I could, I would stab him in the eye with a letter opener. It's one thing to be a proud father, it's another thing to assume anyone gives more than a five minute shit that you just had a baby.

Your wife has not achieved some amazing feat. Your child probably has nothing to do with the Second Coming. The fact that the baby cries and sleeps DOES NOT MAKE IT REMARKABLE, and, IT DOES NOT MAKE YOUR STORIES INTERESTING.

The eight billion pictures you pull out today are no different than the eight billion you pulled out yesterday, save for the yellow bunny blanket. Here's a hint. Adults don't give a fuck about yellow bunny blankets unless someone is either trying to suffocate them with one, or shove it up their asses without invitation.

I don't understand people who offer you information about their children when all you were trying to do was be polite by asking how the baby is. This should not be perceived as an invitation to present a dissertation on baby formula.

And you know what else he does? Whenever one of the secretaries dares to try and participate in the conversation, or tell her own story, he impatiently listens, and then says, "Well. As I was saying...."

People need to understand that if their children aren't remarkably interesting (like my friend Kiki's) then no one honestly and truly cares about them. If I haven't asked to see baby pictures, Don't. Show. Them. To. Me. I won't pretend to be interested.

If I ask any person how they're doing, the usual answer is a simple "fine," or "great," or "ok" because that person knows that I'm asking out of politeness. And he in turn, responds out of politeness, knowing that I really don't want or need any more information. If he started yammering about his plumbing problems or the fact that his wife is screwing her boss, that just creates an uncomfortable social situation where one is sharing too much.

Same rule applies to babies. There's no exception in the social rules of interaction, carving out a niche for babies. No ear infection stories, no aversions to baby powder, not even one iota about rashes. "Fine," "great" or "ok" are the acceptable responses. Anything more? I DON'T CARE. Neither does anyone else. Get over it.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006


I recently read a book admonishing women who have been proposed to more than twice of being careless. I thought about it, since I happen to fall into that category, and wondered whether I was really careless, or just someone who likes to see how far she can get the guy to commit, before she has to extricate herself from a relationship she knows she doesn't want to be in for the rest of her life.

My first boyfriend, whom I loved madly, didn't really propose so much as capitulate to my incessant pressure. Luckily for both of us, he conveniently forgot the entire episode.

A few boyfriends later, I was proposed to again. But we didn't get along very well, and I ended up breaking one of his teeth with my killer aim. He blackmailed me to stay with him, threatening to press charges for assault and battery if I tried to leave. That was a charming relationship that I look back on quite fondly.

There was the boyfriend who was nice, fun, loving, Jewish...and poor. I got thrown out of the house for dating him. And I vaguely recall my mother threatening that if I didn't leave him, she would make my life so miserable, that when I cried (which she guaranteed she would make me do), I would cry blood instead of tears.

I called him, distraught, to break up. I didn't know he was planning on proposing in only a few days, on the 4th of July during the fireworks. But since I was adamant we had to break up because our Jedi training hadn't fully prepared us to fight the forces of Satan, he ended up asking over the phone. Needless to say, family pressure forced us to split months later.

Then, my ex-husband, who proposed on my friend's boat. He used a note in a bottle that he'd hidden in a bathing suit pocket and pulled out as he was coming out of the water. We celebrated all day on the boat, and all night with friends. It was a halcyon day. Really, just the beginning of the end.

And now, my Greek boyf. He didn't use the M word, but asked in what amounted to as a proposal. He knew better than to use the M word; he knew I wouldn't respond positively. I also don't think his mouth is capable of forming the M word and he feared his vocal chords could cramp and choke him to death.

I said, "How about a year? If we're both still alive, and neither one incarcerated or in a mental institution, we'll take it from there."

Love, is about baby steps. Giant leaps can leave you careening off the side of a cliff and splattered on the rocks below. Bob knows what he's talking about.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Things that give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside

Somehow, after practicing law for seven years, I seem to think that "Are you wearing a thong?" is not an appropriate question my office stalker should be asking me.

"Wow, before I was kind of on the fence, but now? Now I really want you."

Friday, August 25, 2006

And yet, even more positive reinforcement

What kind of man asks, "What does your pussy feel like?"

I'll tell you. The kind of man I get to meet while I'm out having a casual drink with a coworker. The man who happens to be a Jewish attorney that would make my mother's panties wet if she knew I met him.

Um, Olympic, I'd like a one-way ticket to heaven please.

Six degrees my ass. Try TWO degrees in a city of millions

You know you've dated everyone in New York when the "hot guy from California that moved down the hall" you've been hearing about for weeks from your good friend is a guy you went out with from JDate a year earlier. What are the chances you ask? PRETTY HIGH.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Just the kind of positive reinforcement a girl needs every once in a while

I don't understand myself. I continuously make the SAME MISTAKES over and over. I KNOW better than to be friendly. I do. No really. I'm a New Yorker. We're trained very early on about these things.

And yet, today, at the coffee station in my new office, at my new temp job, I was polite to the guy who introduced himself to me. I actually had a brief, "oh how long have you worked here, I just started" bullshit conversation.

I met him at around 3:45. I have received 17 (that's seven TEEN) emails from him since then. It's now 6:45. On the same day. He stopped by my office 4 (FOUR) times. Told me I smell really great twice (TWICE). Asked me out for drinks once (ALREADY). AND I JUST RECEIVED THE 18TH AND 19TH EMAILS AS I WRITE THIS.

You know, for the past few days, I've been having a really hard time with my decision to go back to Greece to be with my boyf. I've been plagued with self-doubt. I've asked myself over and over whether I've really given it a chance here in New York, dating about 100 guys in a little over year. I keep thinking, maybe there really is someone here for me that I can love the way I love my boyf, thereby circumventing the need to move to another continent.

But apparently, when you "smell really great" the way I do, that's just code for "your pheromones attract freaks, psychopaths and stalkers. Oh My."

Sometimes you need a little push in the right direction. Fate has decided to give me a giant, full-bodied, up-against-the-railings, your-face-smashed-against-the-glass, hockey-check instead. Maybe Fate thinks I'm a little slow. I just might be. But thanks, got the message. LOUD AND CLEAR.

But of course, Fate won't make him go away. Bitch.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Say Cheese!!!

Ex-girlfriend paraphernalia in the vicinity of a current girlfriend is unnecessary in the most extreme definition of the word. More aptly, it is generally totally and wholly unwarranted and it would be in any man’s best interest and personal, physical safety, to move said items to a minimum of a ten-mile radius of his current girlfriend.

Might I recommend a box stored in a parent’s basement, or a mother’s attic. Somewhere in a galaxy far far away.

Items that generally cause the most damage: Pictures. Get rid of them. No, I’m not suggesting a bonfire, I’m simply suggesting removing pictures from frames, maybe putting them away, keeping them in a place where a current girlfriend won’t accidentally (or not so accidentally, let’s be honest here ladies) come across them. If the pictures are on a computer, and a guy is so loath to part with his past memories, might I suggest maybe burning those pictures to a nice little CD, and then deleting them from the computer.

It’s not that we girls are stupid. We know there have been others before us. What we don’t need to know is how cute the two of you looked together on your trip to some lovely tropical island, or how well she fills out a bikini, or how shiny her hair is, or how romantic the two of you look kissing each other on a bridge surrounded by snow-capped mountains.

Those are the kinds of images that burn themselves into a woman’s brain. And stay there. And then creep up on her when she finds herself in a setting with her boyfriend that looks suspiciously like one of the pictures she accidentally (or not so accidentally) came across. And then, the guy’s in trouble.

Because one thing women want (and I’m not going to speak about what men want, because if I knew, we wouldn’t be reading this blog) is to FEEL THAT THEY ARE SPECIAL. And in order for a woman to feel that she’s special, she needs to feel that the things you do together, the feelings you share for each other, the experiences you have are UNIQUE to the two of you. She doesn’t want to feel that her boyfriend has been there and done that with others, and now, it’s simply her turn on the same ride he’s been on all this time.

After my divorce, I decided to try and spare myself the agony, and now, whenever I date someone, I ask him to please not show me any pictures of his ex’s. I don’t need to put a face to the stories I’m sure I’ll unwillingly hear. (I’m on a need to know basis, and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing about an ex that I need to know.) I know they’re out there, but that doesn’t mean I need to come face-to-face with them, as it were.

Of course, this doesn’t always work. My boyfriend decided to show me some pictures, and before he did, I specifically asked if any of his ex’s would be in the one foot tall stack. “Nooooo. Of course not. I remember what you told me.” Oh good.

And then, we suddenly come across some pictures that didn’t look quite right to me. I got the wrong vibe.

“Is that your girlfriend?”

“No, she’s just a friend.”

“Are you sure that she’s not a girlfriend? You guys look mighty chummy in these couple of pictures.”

“No, no. She’s just a friend. I play wrestle with all of my female friends.”

Um. Yeah. Until I not so accidentally came across some other pictures which clearly CLEARLY indicated that my current boyfriend and this girl dated.

“I thought you said that girl wasn’t your girlfriend, and that she was just a friend. But I saw your other pictures with her, and I’m pretty sure the two of you dated.”

“Um, well, the thing is, we did date. But we dated before the pictures you saw were taken. And then we were friends. So you see, she really was just a friend.”

“Uh huh. And did you date after the so-called friend pictures were taken?”

“Uh, I, uh…..well, I, I….yes. Yes. We dated before and after the pictures you saw. BUT, we were only friends at the time the pictures you saw were taken. So you see, I didn’t lie to you. We were friends, and I showed you pictures of a friend. NOT a girlfriend. She was my girlfriend before and after. But not DURING. Therefore, I didn’t show you pictures of an ex.” (I’m sure he didn’t go to law school, but I gotta admit, even I was impressed with his nerve.)

Needless to say, what I did in response to that ridiculous statement was NOTHING compared to what I did to my ex-husband when I found old pictures he had kept of him and an old girlfriend having sex. Penetration and all. It’s very disconcerting to see the penis you’re married to actually inside someone else. It’s also pretty unnecessary as far as marital experiences go.

So, to all of you who’ve been reading this and thinking that I’m writing from some pathetic, insecure, jealous perspective, you might be right. To an extent. But I’m also writing from the perspective that sometimes, it’s better to try and spare someone’s feelings. Especially if you care about them and it’s at no real loss to you. Of course, the EXACT OPPOSITE applies if you feel like being vengeful and manipulative. Not that I have cause to be familiar with that type of behavior. At all. Really.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

The Not-So-Prodigal Daughter's Return

So I've returned from Heaven, aka, three months in Greece with my boyf. And of course I'm lucky enough to be re-experiencing the dysfunctional psychosis deeply embedded in my family's gene pool.

Part of the family is happy for me for having found someone; part of the family looks at me as if I'm re-eating food I just threw up on the floor; and part of the family is so mad that their heads are ready to explode off their necks.

There are those that have been disillusioned, and are very unhappy about it. They thought my Greek boyf was Jewish, so that when I returned, they were ready to give me the, "As long as you love each other, get along, and want to be together, it doesn't matter where you live. You have to build your own life, even if it's in Greece."

But the minute they found out he isn't Jewish, suddenly the mantra became, "You're making the biggest mistake of your life. You will regret this for the rest of your life. Your life will be over." I tried to make them understand that I don't care about religion, that I don't even believe in god, and therefore, if their advice is to go if the guy is Jewish, then their advice should be the same if I don't care about religion. They don't see it that way. Remarkably.

Somehow, the only thing that resonates in the talks I have with my family is the constant reference to MY LIFE. That's right. It's my life. And therefore, I have the right to muck it up as much as I like. Muck, muck muckety muck.

So far, I've screwed up my life by constantly keeping others in mind when I made a decision to do something. "Would my family approve of this guy? Does he make enough money so that I can keep up with my friends and not shame my family? Is my law firm impressive enough? Are my clothes nice enough; is my figure nice enough; do I look good enough to keep anyone from making plastic surgery suggestions at the dinner table?"

And now, I don't really care. I would rather fuck up my life based on my own mistakes, rather than fucking it up based on the opinion of others.

What's the worst that could happen? We break up? We hate each other? The police need to get involved? Yeah, like I'm not used to that.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Truth In Advertising

My hotel brochure from Santorini.....the view (which includes my hotel, if you look to the left) is from a nearby trip, does NOT suck.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Are you LOOKING for a fight?

"Can you imagine how hard it is to be a lifeguard? I could never do it."

"What are you talking about?! There are no waves, no undertow, no nothing here in Greece. The seas are perfectly calm all the time. Most beaches don't even have lifeguards because there's no point."

"Yes, but if I was a lifeguard, I would have to keep my eyes on the water at all times. Look at all the half naked girls I'd end up ignoring. There's just no way."

"You mean to tell me that you couldn't be a lifeguard because it would interfere with your ability to look at girls in bathing suits?"

"Girl watching is a way of life for me. I mean, uh, I only look when you're not around. I mean, I have eyes only for you when you're with me. What I'm trying to say, is that, well, I only look. And looking does no harm. Right? Huh? What do you think? Is that ok? "

"Waiter, bring me another Corona, and a hot poker."

Monday, July 03, 2006

My Babysitting Rates Have Gone Up

Why is it that every time I get into a relationship, I end up feeling like I've adopted a spoiled, selfish, demanding child instead.

I'm not in the adoption business. I don't even like kids. I'm not the Big Sister type. My time with a Little Sister would involve martinis, cigarettes, and attempts at not falling down in public. These are not things for unseasoned children. And I'm not into training future degenerates. I don't have the patience to break down good values and sensibility.

But why do men bear an uncanny resemblance to the child I see in the supermarket throwing a tantrum because mommy won't get him the sugar-riddled sociopath-inducing behavior cereal he wants. I've always wanted to go up to those mothers, and tell them that their child belongs in a cage, and should be poked every once in while with a cattle prod. And it wouldn't hurt to use the cattle prod on themselves either, for producing an unruly, difficult child that now society has to put up with, and eventually jail due to any number of unspeakable crimes he will most likely commit. Thanks to the disgusting cereal he's hooked on and her bad parenting skills, her darling little five-year old has no shame in throwing himself on the floor, and pounding his fists into the grimy supermarket floor just to get his way. Way to go lady!

So anyway, there seems to be a definite parallel in behavior between grown men and five year old boys. And it's starting to grate on my nerves. There are only so many tantrums I'm willing to put up with. And yelling? Yelling?! No one yells at me. NO ONE. My own mother is afraid of my shadow, and there are men that actually think they can raise their voice to me. It's too incredible to get mad at. I don't countenance yelling. And I don't tolerate tantrums.

And yet every man I've ever encountered, has exhibited these traits in one form or another. Maybe I've been looking for something that doesn't exist: a relationship with an adult male. Can't play the game when no one qualifies for the other team.

I think it's a matter of perspective. No, it's not. It's an objective standard. I've decided. Children are the most selfish people on earth. Always thinking about themselves, wanting you to foot the bill, and feed them, and buy them stupid clothes they're going to outgrow in a few months anyway. They should wear clothes that are three years too big in size. This way, mommy saves time shopping, and has more money for important things, like vodka. Men are basically small children trapped in big, lumbering, sometimes unnecessarily hairy bodies. They too are unreasonably selfish. Give me love, give me attention, give me my way or I'll yell and cry. Oh please. Take a pill and calm the fuck down. Here, have one of mine for god's sake. And shut it, before I get my own cattle prod.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Things that should have been on the SAT's so that I would be better prepared for life, thanks a lot assholes

What, if any, is the appropriate response to the question, "How much do you love me?" (Besides the obvious retching, laughter, turning and walking away as calmly and quickly as possible, and of course, the party favorite, "I'm sorry, have we met?")

I mean, $79.99? Forty-three pounds? 88 gazillion miles? Because as of today, "I like you a lo'" said with the Jim Carey, Dumb and Dumber voice, is clearly NOT the right answer.

First of all, who the hell asks that kind of question?! The same kind of person that asks what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that if you ask me one more girl-oriented question, I'm going to cut your nuts off so that you fit the profile.

I don't know, "I love you so much that I'll try really hard not to fuck with you when you ask me that and make you feel even more insecure than I've apparently already made you feel." How about that?

Or, "I love you so much that I won't tell you that I'm posting this on my blog, since you don't read it anyway, in order to spare you the impending humiliation." Because I'm that kind of girl.

Okay, let's be honest, "I love you so much that I do get jealous when I see the pictures of all of your ex-girlfriends around the house. But then, I remember that I'm better looking than they are, and I get over it." That's love, right?

How about, "I love you so much that I'll let you keep asking me that question without being a bitch (to your face) and I'll try to answer you in a more sensitive and satisfying way." Yeah, that's the measure of love. Trying your best to make the person you're with feel good about themselves, and keeping your (low) opinion of them to yourself. And to everyone that reads your blog.

What's up with this love nonsense?

For some reason, my many relatives in Israel are strong supporters of my little romance here in Greece. They constantly encourage me to stay with the guy. The guy wants me to stay. He keeps asking. I like hearing him say it over and over again. I also like that I'm completely non-committal to his proposal. I feel it gives me the upper hand. I like the upper hand. If I can't have a decent drink in this god forsaken country, I'll take the upper hand instead. Beggars can't be choosers at this point.

But then staying would mean leaving New York, and my family and my very cute apartment. It goes without saying that of course it would be very difficult to leave that apartment. Family too, I guess, but I'm really attached to the apartment.

Anyway, the family in Israel keeps harping on this whole silly love thing. "But you love him, don't you?" They say over and over again. "Yes, of course I love him. He's really fantastic. A very special person. I'm very lucky to have found him." Blah blah fucking blah. "And he loves you? Didn't you say he wants to get married?" "Yes, he wants.....he wants to get m-m-m-married." "So what's the problem?! You love each other, he wants to get married, and your mother is a whopping nine hour plane ride away. It just doesn't get better than that."

I don't know what the problem is. But it seems, to me at least, that a woman at 30, who has put herself through school, owns her own apartment, her own car, is completely self-sufficient, has the educational background and experience to support herself with a very nice and comfortable income, doesn't give that sort of thing up for a guy. Does she?

I mean, I'm not a baby person (except for the ones I've dated) and I'm in no rush to pop one of those slimy things out of me. And I've already done the whole "I do till death do us part or until you become a raving wife-beating maniac" thing replete with the engagement ring you could see from space and the puffy wedding dress.

And love ebbs and flows. Like picking the petals off a flower. "I love him." "I want to do him bodily harm." "I love him." "I wonder if I could smother him with a pillow and say he died peacefully in his sleep." "I love him." "How bad could Greek prison really be."

Love is all well and good. But I often wonder, isn't it really just a chemical addiction? Is it really enough to make you act like a lunatic, change your entire life around. Go down a path you never dreamed or imagined? I know, I sound like a woman who has been burned one too many times and has come out of it rather bitter.

But you try dating in New York, and having the worst sex of your life, which lasted a very literal total of two-and-a-half minutes after the guy prematurely ejaculated four minutes earlier. AND he had the audacity to clean up afterward with your fluffy, giant, favorite bath-towel instead of a small washcloth, or WATER. Who uses a person's bath-towel for god's sake?! I mean really. Oh, and I have three words for you if you're reading this. Vi. A. Gra.

And then of course, with love must come trust. How utterly annoying. I don't have a trust issue. I totally trust anyone and everyone who has absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, feelings or finances. They have the deepest trust I am capable of feeling. Trust is clearly not a problem.

I mean, can I really live in a foreign country, in a foreign culture, with a man I love, and not have a proper drink for the rest of my life? That might be too much of a compromise. Cocktails are a way of life for one particular alcoholic New Yorker, let's not kid ourselves here.

And, like the three cardinal rules of real estate, (1. Location; 2. Location; 3. Location) there are the correlative three rules when dating a Jewish girl from New York: 1. Your finances; 2. Your parents' finances; 3. When your parents' finances will combine with your finances.

And, on top of everything else, I'd have to learn Greek. Did you know there's a tense here called genitive? Genitive. Sounds like genitalia, or vagina, or even genetics, if that's how your brain works. I don't even know what genitive means.

I guess this is too much thinking for a random afternoon. Maybe I'll go for a swim in the beach across the street from my house. Or maybe I'll go for a coffee at one of the many lovely coffee shops along the water down the street. God, it's so tough here now. I don't know how on earth I'm going to manage.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Culture Shmulture

There's something about going to the ballet, to watch one of the worlds most renown dancers, Sylvie Guillem, mesmerize the audience (and your boyfriend) with her amazing gracefulness and sweeping movements, in an ancient marble amphitheater, with the sun setting behing the stones, surrounded by diplomats and celebrities, and then falling, FALLING! on the steps as you leave, and practically taking out three little old ladies on your way down.

Why behave with dignity when I can just be myself.

N.B. - and NO, I wasn't even sauced up.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

My Ears Might Actually Start Bleeding

I actually heard it. I heard words that a woman my age should never hear.

"I buy Playboy for the articles."

Yes, I'm sure you do. And you probably watch porn to learn filmmaking for your independent film project about the AIDS epidemic in Africa.

I literally laughed for five whole minutes. If you actually read Playboy for the articles, you might have learned that even surgically enhanced, airbrushed, cowboy boot wearing, but curiously nude otherwise women KNOW BETTER. Even if their turn-ons are long walks on the beach, giving blow-jobs and knitting.

I'm just saying.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

The Meaning of True Love, Bitchass Style

"Hey baby, I just wanted to call and tell you, but wait, I don't want you to worry or anything, I'm totally OK and it's not a big deal, but I hit my head at work. Please, stay calm, it's just a little bump, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about AT ALL. I'm going to see a doctor now, but really, I want you not to worry."

"You hit your head?"

"Yes, but like I said, please, please, don't get upset. Don't worry. I promise you I'm fine."

"Upset?! Thank god! Maybe you knocked some sense into yourself! I'm going to finish my game of sudoku. I'll talk to you later."

Friday, June 09, 2006

Who do I have to fuck to get a decent drink around here?!

Apparently the Cradle of Civilization has yet to familiarize itself with my choice of drink. And I find this to be beyond irritating, especially when all I'm looking forward to is a nice, calming cocktail to get the evening started.

My drinks of choice are: A vodka martini (Kettle or Goose), up, dry, with olives. My other drink is Patron Silver on the rocks, with salt. Both drinks are so easy to make, that I'm sure even George Bush couldn't bungle it. I will of course, partake of the occasional mind-numbing, coma-inducing glass or twelve of wine, but I prefer to pass out from imbibing dangerous quantities of more substantial alcohol.

Unfortunately for me, not only do none of the bars or clubs I've frequented carry any combination of Kettle, Goose, or Patron, but they don't even seem to understand how to make a martini with their inferior vodka, Stoli.

The other night, I tried, vainly, to order a Stoli martini with olives. The waiter looked at me like I was the village idiot. "Olives?!" He demanded, with derision, as if I just asked him to serve me a dead cat with soy sauce. "Yes, OLIVES." I replied. "This is Greece isn't it? I can walk down the street and pick olives off a tree for Christ's sake. You don't have olives at the bar?" Obviously not. So instead, I try to order my martini with a twist. Don't even ask. He shakes his head at me in utter disappointment.

Suffice it to say I end up with a small tumbler, full of ice, with a shot of vodka, an obscenely liberal pour of lemon juice, and a perfectly round slice of lemon floating on top. NOT a martini. Not even a cousin of the martini. Not even a long lost relative of the martini. They don't even live in the same time zone.

I think it's some kind of conspiracy. The kind of conspiracy to mistreat tourists I would only expect of the French.

I'm not even going to comment on the dearth of tequila.

You might be wondering why I'm making such a big deal about the alcohol choices. Well, because I'm an alcoholic, and alcohol is very important to alcoholics. And I'm in a foreign country, where I don't speak the language, can't enjoy the company of my boyfriend's friends and their inside jokes, and really REALLY need alcohol to have fun. That's right. I SAID IT. I need alcohol to have fun. Sue me. So do you.

Luckily, my boyfriend is the best kind of guy, and fully supports all of my endeavors with full fervor and showed up last night with a gianormous bottle of Grey Goose. It's in the freezer right now, taunting me, waiting to be opened. I'm waiting until noon. I mean, I have to finish my coffee with Bailey's first

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Cooking 101

Apparently, in Greece, you are not allowed to make, cook, prepare, or eat any food other than Greek food. Because for some reason, in Greece, Greek food is the only food on earth.

God forbid you have any machinations of making, say, chicken teriyaki. Because, if you DARE to dream, they will take your dreams and pulverize them into the fine rock-ridden dirt that lines their beaches.

The supermarket does not contain a dressing or marinade isle. You know, your usual sundry items and bottles embossed with images of Paul Newman. (Of course, the supermarket sells whole, frozen octopus. Obviously, because of the huge demand.) This is done on purpose, to prevent you from even imagining that there is such a thing as chicken teriyaki. Or barbecue chicken. Or buffalo chicken. If you don't marinade your meat or chicken in lemon juice, olive oil and/or oregano, you're fucked.

And let's be serious, how is a Jewish girl from New York going to make her own teriyaki sauce?! Yes, I can pass the bar. Barely. But cooking? Not my forte. I'm from the Land of Takeout. Also known as the Land of Ordering In. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have to learn how to actually cook. Which is ridiculous. It's taken me years to master drinking. Imagine the effort to learn how to cook?!

Saturday, June 03, 2006

I mean, is there really a reason to complain?!

OK, so I know I'm in Greece for the summer, and there's really no cause WHATSOEVER to complain, but I have to lodge one little complaint. One, teeny tiny itty bitty one.

You see, being from America, and enjoying the beaches of NY, Miami, California, various islands in the Caribbean, and Tahiti and Bora Bora, I always thought the beaches of Greece would be comparable, if not even better. BUT, the beaches, at least the five or six I've been to already, are actually NOT better.

And I'm not talking about the eye-candy, or the views, or the music they play, or any of that. I'm talking about the fucking rocks that are on every beach. There is NO SAND. NO SAND. Just rocks. And not smooth, nice, delicate little beige and yellow rocks like you see in Monte Carlo, but big, mean, rough edged rocks. Everywhere.

The kind that like to dig into your feet and cause foot cramps. And although my boyfriend insists the beaches have sand, I don't consider light brown dirt to be sand. Sorry. That's NOT sand. Um, that's DIRT. Dirt with rocks.

And, the rocks are not only on the beach, but they're in the water. Not all the way in the water, but at least in the beginning, for about five meters. Or, fifteen feet. Fifteen feet of rocks before you hit smooth dirt. With sea grass growing out of it housing any number of undesirable sea life.

I'm a firm believer that, like the rest of the earth, humans should have full reign of the oceans. I think we should be the most dangerous things in the water, at least the water surrounding the coast. Not sea urchins, not jelly fish, not little fish that like to bite your ankles. WE should prevail.

So, when you try to walk into the water, you basically have to hold your arms out to balance yourself on the rocks, and you step gingerly and not very gracefully into the water until you hit dirt. Of course on your way, you invariably step on something that makes you jerk left or right, or lurch forward to avoid the pain. And then, once you've hit the sand/dirt, you then have to watch out for the grass.

This is why my boyfriend has resorted to tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying into the water until he hits dirt. And then, he unceremoniously dumps me in. Because there's only so much patience he has with me "Ouching!" and "Ooching!" my way into the water for ten minutes while everyone else has become a bobbing head on the horizon.

You know what, this brings me back to my basic assertion that with alcohol, anything is possible. Alcohol, like morphine, or crack, takes all forms of pain away. How the hell do you think girls can dance all night on tables in four inch stilettos without having had enough of the sauce to feel no pain?

Next beach, me and my old friend Jose Cuervo are going to go swimming together. And I think I'll be as agile and graceful as a gazelle loping in the woods, instead of looking like a porpoise trying to climb a flight of stairs.

Me and Jose are like the Wonder Twins. Together, we're invincible. If I live, I'll post about it.

Monday, May 15, 2006

So, Greece does NOT suck

There's something about meeting a significant other's parents that could make even the strongest of personality types puke the day of. I'm not implying that I would ever be reduced to such an undignified state of fear and uncertainty, but I can certainly see such an occurrence happening. Of course, not sleeping for over 48 hours straight and then eating a pork gyro, pork being the foulest of meats, and apparently the national favorite (and here I thought lamb, but what do dumb Americans know....) could also contribute.

It's not so much the meeting, as it is the horrible anticipation, the growing fear and alarm, that nervous pit in the bottom of your stomach, that slowly spreads to your limbs and causes your knees to knock together under your beautiful Tahari cocktail dress as you teeter on your stilettos while you are presented to a small, white haired, kind faced woman who speaks no English, and actually appears more afraid of you, than you of her. Kind of like when my mother used to try to impress upon me that the spider, 1 millionth my size, was probably quaking a tad more than I was upon our introduction and its inevitable encounter with the bottom of my shoe.

Not that I would ever liken a parent to an insect, more closely to Jabba the Hut. But I think I won her over. I do. No really. My hello was flawless, my smile, although somewhat wobbly, was sincere, as was my firm, but polite handshake.

And of course, the coup de gras, when the groom left the dance floor to single me out and drag me to the dance floor to display my inept ability to learn line dancing, my EL's mother actually stood up and took pictures of me. I personally think it was to have something to identify me to the hit man she hired, but nonetheless, it was a nice gesture. Of course, if I find a dart board in their living room with a startling resemblance to me, I won't take it personally.

It also appears, that in countries outside of America, lawyers have earned a certain modicum of respect. I guess in Europe lawyers are more trained to cover up the slime mark they leave in their wake. Or, maybe the level of ethics is different. Maybe they actually practice ethics here. Amazing.

Either way, Greece is a lovely country. I am slowly getting over my fear of venturing out on my own. Venturing out in a country where you look like the natives is somewhat daunting. Mainly because everyone expects you to speak the language. And when you stammer your apologies that actually, you don't speak any Greek, but rather English, and not British English, but the twangy American English, they look almost disappointed. They look at you as if you failed them. I think they think I'm Greek, but I haven't bothered to learn Greek in my native America. An insult of the greatest proportions, especially in a country that prides itself as being the "cradle of civilization." (Enough to make me puke again, but I'll refrain.)

But, I have managed, in the past week I've spent here, to learn the alphabet, and I've taught myself to read, at an amateur level to be sure, but certainly impressive for a weeks worth of hanging out. I may not know what the hell I'm reading, but by god, I won't be categorized as illiterate. NOT in the "cradle of civilization" of all places. (You'd think the cradle of civilization would eat something OTHER than pork all the time, but civlized must mean different things to different people).

The kitchen in my apartment is a Jewish girl's dream come true. There is no stove or oven. NO STOVE OR OVEN. Utterly fabulous. What's for dinner dear? RESERVATIONS. The ultimate bachelor-pad has backfired.

And there is a lovely strip of coffee shops and restaurants right by me. You know, to go, sit, read, have a coffee. Apparently, it's ok to sit and drink a coffee for two hours. This doesn't jive with my New York go get em mentality, but I will persevere to acclimate myself to this alien ideology. When in Rome and all that.....Ahh the travails of being on holiday for an undetermined period of time. I know, you all feel so sorry for me. Me too.....

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Bathings suits, check. Tank tops and shorts, check. Kevlar body armor, check.

So I'll be arriving in Greece on Saturday morning, and meeting my European Lover's parents on Saturday evening, at a wedding where my European Lover is the Best Man.

Good thing is, they don't speak any English. Bad thing is, they're going to judge me on my behavior instead. I don't think anyone is too keen on having a daughter-in-law who goes drink for drink with their son. Maybe I'll refrain, ok TRY to refrain, from dancing on any furniture at the reception.

I'll definitely refrain, ok ok TRY to refrain, from drinking too much as well.

My mother insists I wear something eye-catching and fancy. I'm thinking, simple black cocktail dress might throw them off long enough to think I'm a nice girl, at least as a first impression. I'll have lots of time to disabuse them of that notion later. They've got plenty of time to get to hate the real me, why ruin a perfectly good party.

I usually take this sort of thing in stride. It's not that big of a deal for me to meet a guy's parents. I always know the outcome anyway: Dad loves me, mom hates me. Same with siblings: Brothers love me, sisters want to see me get hit by a car. Repeatedly.

I'm not quite sure why it's always like that, but there seems to be something about me that's very off-putting to women who don't know me. I definitely don't have that problem with men. It's very easy for me to make male friends, hang out, chit chat it up, have a great time out. Maybe women sense that I don't have the patience to sit through "Girl Drama", a play of endless acts and costume changes, with worse billing than Cats.

The European Lover's brother likes me. He's quite charming actually and there are no sisters in the picture. Thank goodness. So, most likely, only one member of the family would like to see me on the bottom of the Mediterranean. And I don't think his mom is strong enough to hold me under water long enough for me to drown. I could probably take her.

Friday, April 28, 2006

My very worthwhile two cents, or, unsolicited advice that will probably just piss you off

Having been single, then married, then single, I've realized that both situations have equal suck-age factors. Especially after talking to my single and married friends.

My single friends are annoyed that they're single, lonely, sexually frustrated, sometimes hopeless about finding the ONE (I personally believe there are lots of ONE's depending on where you are in life, what you're looking for, how totally desperate you are and how low you're willing to go to not sleep alone on a regular basis...).

I have single friends who are knowingly dating the totally wrong guy, but keep doing it anyway, because they don't want to get back out there. Yes, when he's eight years younger, it amounts to pedophelia. Call me when the authorities catch up with you. I'll bail you out and defend you in court, we can use a temporary insanity defense. No, I'm not going to a keg party with you this weekend.

I have single friends who are desperately trying to dodge the marriage noose their mothers are chasing them with, but can't find one single, normal guy to have as a boyfriend. You know, someone who returns your calls on a regular basis, doesn't call you by the name of the girl he fucked last night, isn't on any kind of mood stabilizing medication. Just the basics.

Or yours truly. After having dated all the eligible single men on the East Coast, and refusing to adhere to the tenets of Manifest Destiny, because really, I may be desperate, but I'm not desperate enough to end up with a guy in one of the RED states or a fruit loop in California, I'm moving TO ANOTHER COUNTRY FOR A MAN. Textbook case of how NY dating is bad for your mental health.

My married friends have become disillusioned with their ONE. Can't stand him or her. Wonder if they made a mistake. Wonder if there's a way out, or a way to fix it. Eyes start to wander. "Meetings" are what married people now have. She tries to figure out how the hell she can explain how her panties got torn at the "Meeting" and why she has bruises on her knees when she gets home to her husband. He tells me his wife couldn't care less when he goes home drunk, smelling like perfume.

Sometimes my married friends just want to act like they're single, go out, get drunk, flirt. But there's a big difference between acting and being single.

My single friends need to understand that marriage is not the golden ring they've been raised to believe it is. There will come a point, very soon, when you're like, "Please, PLEASE, go out with the boys. For god's sake, GO, go ANYWHERE. I'll go to the ATM machine and get you $20's for the strip club. Just leave me alone for one night."

And my married friends, who keep asking me whether divorce is really an option, people, it's HARD OUT THERE. AND IT'S LONELY. The rules of dating have changed since you were single. And it's much much uglier.

Single life isn't all about parties and hot girls and hot guys and great vacations (although lets be honest, that's a big part of it...), and married life isn't all about love, and security and sex and togetherness. (That kind of made me throw up a little in my mouth).

Basically what I'm trying to say is, the grass isn't always greener. And if you think your life blows because you're single, I promise you I can find an equal number of married people who'll say the same thing. And if you think your life blows because you're trapped in marriage with a person you want to stab repeatedly with your child's crayons, take heart, it's hard to be single. It's even harder to be divorced.

So, to all of my dear friends who read this blog: SUCK IT UP YOU PUSSIES, IT COULD ALWAYS BE WORSE!

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Letter To My Subconscious, Which Refuses to Let Me Get One Good Night's Sleep, WTF?!

Dear Subconscious,

I don't understand why you feel it necessary to wake me up at various intervals throughout the night, either through nightmarish dreams of terrorists trying to shoot me and my friends at a black tie party, and only providing pool tables, (pool tables?!) as something to hide under (when everyone knows that a pool table doesn't provide even the slightest bit of protection against terrorist AK-47's! Bastard!), or by forcing me to dream of water and how desperately parched I am after having a couple of drinks with dinner, which invariably forces me to wake up and stumble incoherently into my kitchen to cure the worst case of dry mouth EVER, or by simply waking me up for no reason at all. Hey, why not wake up, it's 3:47 am already. Who needs to sleep? I NEED TO SLEEP! I. Need. To. Sleep.

And also, please stop making me dream about men I can't have. Or men I've dated. Really, that's not necessary at all. I don't need to encounter any of my ex's in Dream World. And I don't need to encounter them in ANY type of sexual situation. Really. And I also don't need to encounter former friends who are no longer friends because we had the friend break-up. Dream World is a dangerous place, stop making me bump into people I don't want to see. Hey, why not a little Pierce Brosnan action? What about John Stamos, he sleeps, he has dreams, why can't I bump into him?!

Really Subconscious, you're trying my patience. Although, I do have to thank you for the hot male prostitute I dreamt about last night, best oral sex I've gotten in a looooong time. At least my sex life in Dream World is improving. But my sleep isn't improving. Lying awake last night from 4:30 to 6:45 made coming to work painful.

Don't make me resort to drugs, like Ambien, or crystal meth. You won't like what happens. Now, as a compromise, I'm going to try some Tylenol PM. If you refuse to play nicely with the Tylenol, I swear crystal meth it is, young lady.

I hope this letter can bring us together to a more congenial understanding of our mutual needs. I need to sleep, you need to stop fucking with that.

All the best,

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Why take an opportunity, when I can laugh in its face instead....

So last night, we had a little dinner party at my friend's house. Just five girls, with four bottles of wine.

Eventually, it degenerated into phone calls to boys, who came over, who wanted to go out. I had a meeting at 9 today, and decided that going out at 11:30 on a random Tuesday night, with random boys I didn't know, wouldn't be responsible.

The boys being gentlemen, kept asking and trying to convince a couple of us who said no. "No, come, it will be great, my car is right downstairs, we'll have so much fun...blah blah blah." No really, I'd love to, but I can't, I have a meeting first thing. Thanks so much though.

We get downstairs, ready to split up, two girls going out, two girls going home.


People, did you get that? A PHANTOM, full of GORGEOUS YOUNG MEN, trying to convince me and my girlfriend, to go out with them. And what do I do? Well, first, I salivate, and then, I force myself to turn away from the car and the men, and walk towards my friend's car.

Because in a couple of weeks, I'll be with my European Lover. And I'd like to think that I'm above that sort of thing, you know, hanging out with rich fancy people, just for the sake of being able to say I was in a Phantom full of gorgeous guys. I'm not that shallow.

This morning's first instant message: Dude, you missed out, club was awesome, we drank Crystal all night....

I'm a total idiot. An utter moron. I have no idea what I was thinking when I said no last night, but I am very clearly not well in the head. I might be in love with my European Lover. Only love makes you act like such a fucking tool. This love shit is messing up my game.

Good causes, fundraisers, save the world, hug a tree, blah blah blah

I HATE being told what to do. I especially hate it when someone asks me for a favor, and when it doesn't get done to their satisfaction, they give me attitude. It's a FAVOR. I don't OWE YOU ANYTHING.

Sometimes, I don't do the favor. Sometimes, I don't do it BECAUSE I HAVEN'T GOTTEN TO IT YET. Sometimes, it might be because I simply forgot.

But what really ticks me off is getting a snotty, obnoxious, holier-than-thou email when the favor hasn't been done:

"Link to Fundraiser For Kids

- did you not get that, or did you just ignore me? Again, I would be very appreciative if you could mention it in your blog. It is not for my ego, but for poor kids. "

ALRIGHT ALREADY!!!! I linked to your fundraiser. Happy?! Sorry I didn't expedite it to your satisfaction yesterday, when you FIRST told me about it. You had to wait an ENTIRE 24 hours for me to link it. I'll even link it HERE. And HERE. And what about HERE?!

And do NOT ever write me a nasty-gram like that again. Just because you're tall, and strong, and lean, and a dear friend of mine, doesn't mean I won't come to your apartment and KICK YOUR ASS.

By the way, this is really a great cause, and if you could donate even a little, it would go a long way.

Here's the link again:

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

You've GOT to be kidding

I find it hilarious that the Turnip actually thinks I'm going to do work for him after his instrumental role in getting me fired. It's not my problem he has no idea how to work the files, or how to research, or how to analyze the contracts, or how to write the letter to the client, or how to count to 10, or how to draw inside the lines.

Maybe if he didn't spend the better part of his legal career writing briefs in crayon on the back of gravy stained place mats, he wouldn't need me now.

I've decided that in the 13 days I have left at the office, I will finish work only for colleagues I happen to like. Those TWO will not get fucked by me. Because that's just not nice. And I'm a nice girl.

I don't even get bothered by the subways anymore. I couldn't care less about the filth, or the bleak atmosphere. But I still hate the annoying tourists, so happy, with their dumb smiles and laughter. Shut up! It's morning rush hour. Yes, you're on the right god damned train to see the Statue of Liberty. For god's sake. And get out of my way when we get off the train. See the stairs? Make for the stairs, you retards, don't just stand there, looking around. There's nothing to see here! It's an underground subway station with leaking pipes. MOVE!

I hate Tourist Season. But I hate the Turnip even more. Maybe once he learns to write with a shiny number two pencil, he'll learn how to do his own work. Maybe.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Passover, Just Another Joyous Occasion Built for Torture

"Breaking and entering is illegal Mom."

"It's not breaking and entering when I have a key, kiddo."

So I get home last night, and look around. And I notice that things in my kitchen are not as they were when I left in the morning.

The last time my mother used her key to break and enter, I came home to the stench of "special" incense she had burned all over my apartment to ward off the evil eye.

This time? She took down my old mezuzahs, and hung up new ones. On all the doors. Why? Because the old ones weren't kosher. And that's why I was still single and in a job I hate. She figured by changing them, she would be able to change my luck, and maybe I wouldn't be single anymore. Maybe I would let go of my silly European Lover fantasies, and just make her dreams come true already.

Little did she know that while she was sneaking around my apartment trying to change my luck, I was busy GETTING FIRED. And getting fired has just facilitated an ability to spend even MORE time with my European Lover.

I haven't told her yet I got fired. But I think I'll tell her by thanking her for changing my luck in such a great way. Thanks Mom!!! Without you and your meddling, I might still be employed, and I would only have one measly week with my European Lover instead of an unlimited amount of time. You really DID change my luck! Mom? Mom? Don't pretend to pass out. I'm not falling for that one again.


Tuesday, April 11, 2006


I just got fired. Not laid off. Not let go. But fired. FIRED.

Fired from a job that provides me with the monetary rewards to pay a mortgage, own a car, pay back my school loans, take occasional vacations, and go out anytime, anywhere.

But then again, I was just fired from a job I LOATH. Fired from a job that keeps me awake on Sunday nights with anxiety. Fired from a job that requires every single ounce of strength I have to get out of bed in the mornings. Fired from a job where I do not get along with the partners I'm assigned to. Fired from a job that is too far from where I live. Fired from a job that has totally made me rethink my decision to become a lawyer.

The funniest part is what the partner said when he fired me, "We need to separate from each other. Things just aren't working out. I'm very sorry. You have 30 days." I was like, am I getting fired, or are you breaking up with me?

I didn't say anything, besides, "Ok" "Fine" "Not a problem." I know why I was fired, and I wasn't going to argue. If you don't get along with the specific people you work for, then it's just a matter of time. What can I say, my personality didn't suit theirs, probably because I have one.

The best part is that on Friday, I requested and was approved for vacation time and I bought a ticket right away to see my European Lover in 30 days. So now, my one week vacation has become an open ended ticket, because I don't have a job to come back to. (Silver lining people - island hopping in Greece in May is NOT a bad way to go....)

My European Lover wants me to stay with him. Permanently. He's said some weird things that I don't know how to react to, things that start with "W" and end in "ife", "M" and "arry", and maybe an "Us" in there somewhere, I don't know. Oh, did I mention that life with him would be idyllic? Being financially independent at 30 does that for people, I guess.

Ah, decisions decisions.....

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Just a Typical Night Out

Only in New York is the ATM machine closest to the bar I went to last night, located in a store that sells this:

Saturday, April 08, 2006

I'm Not a Lesbian, but Sometimes....

OK, so I have a girl crush. I work with her, and I secretly love her. I. Love. Her.

I was talking to a friend in his office today, and she walked in. And I acted like a fourteen year old boy whose mother just caught him sniffing thongs in the lingerie section of Bloomingdales. I started to blush and sweat a little. I even kind of laughed awkwardly a few times, and shifted my weight from foot to foot. Once I started to stutter, I realized that I had to get out of there.

There's not a man on earth that has ever made me act like that. But then again, no man I know is easily 5 foot 9 inches tall, with long, beautiful real blond hair, is a perfect size two, has clear alabaster skin and green eyes, and is FRENCH. For god's sake, my Girl Crush is FRENCH. YES!!!!! She has a FRENCH accent. I KNOW!!!!! You love her TOO!!!!!

Sigh. She's so ahhmayzing. And, to top it off, she's NICE. Sooo nice. And I don't mean, she's nice for a French person nice. I mean she's nice, Mother Teresa would be like, wow, I should be that nice, nice.

If I were a lesser woman, I would be petty and jealous. But I recognize greatness when it walks into the office in awesome slim tailored slacks, with beautiful high heels, and a crisp, fitted blouse, surrounded by a halo of blond locks, framing a perfect MAKEUP-LESS face.

I just want to sit around and gaze at her adoringly. That might not fly with the partners. But then again, maybe it would......

Friday, April 07, 2006


One lemon drop shot, check.

Two glasses of straight vodka, check.

Three bottles of hot sake, check.

Crawl into work at 11, check.

Take a nap at my desk to prepare for tonight's festivities, check.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Take your TPS Reports and Shove Them

Because I work with a bunch of lawyers who are neurotic (shocker) middle aged men, I invariably get in the middle of their ugly pissing matches. Golden showers? Not my gig people.

One partner gives me a file, and sends me to another partner to review the work product. The second partner gets offended that I'm coming to him to review work for a file that's not his. And he yells at me. "He sent you to me?! To review this??? Why?"

Well, maybe because he's basically a turnip with a pulse, and has the mental capacity of a turnip without a pulse. I don't know, that's just conjecture on my part.

And the turnip only communicates in cryptic, one word emails. He won't answer the phone for some insane reason. Sometimes, he just forgoes using actual words, and decides to only use punctuation.

"Subject: XYZ, Corp.
Text: ????"

I don't know what that means. Do you know what that means? I'm sure I can sit around and try to guess, but why not just send a coherent email? Why? Why does it have to be so weird?

And then, I'll run around the firm trying to find him, because he WON'T ANSWER THE PHONE, and discover that he took a nice mid-morning jaunt to the gym and is now in a conference room, having a leisurely lunch with a buddy.

And the second partner, who has affectionately been dubbed Eyore by his colleagues, will put himself in an early grave, with the amount of deep sighs, hair grabbing, temple rubbing and eye-rolling he does. Dude, we do transactional work. There are no court deadlines. No one is waiting for a stay on his death sentence at midnight here. CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

Nothing is the end of the world. But for him, everything is the end of the world. And everyone is a total idiot for not understanding that sentiment. I am obviously one of those idiots.

And then, there's the very nice older attorney, who is really past his prime, and should be spending his days at his lovely villa in the French Riviera. Instead, he's here, giving me angst, and sending me on wild goose chases, because he doesn't quite get the issues anymore, but insists that he's right. Until he's wrong.

Needles to say, communication is, how shall I put this delicately, well, it's at high volume. And I so badly want to tell them, "HEY, I'm not your wife, and I'm not your errant daughter smoking cigarets in the garage. YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT."

But I can't. Because I'm a girl. And girls can't yell back at their middle aged bosses. Men my age can yell back, because then they're viewed as passionate and devoted. I'll be looked at like a harridan, like some emotional lunatic.

As if my emotional lunacy has anything to do with my job. Puh-leeze. The line forms to the left gentlemen, right there, behind my mother and ex-husband.

Monday, April 03, 2006

New Depths of Desperation

My mother, like any typical Jewish mother, is extremely concerned about my status as a single 30 year old.

Since I'm not moving fast enough at getting off the fast track to sealing my inevitable fate of becoming a horrible, childless spinster, my mother has now taken it upon herself to save me from myself.

In order to get me married off to the first available and willing candidate (which in her mind, are the only prerequisites necessary for entering the sacred bonds of marriage), she has now resorted to actually picking up men for me.

And then calling me, with an unlikely story of how she happened to meet him on her way out of her office. And really, they were talking about business, before it even crossed her mind to bring me up. And the only real reason she did bring me up, was because this complete and utter stranger, this very "polite," "handsome, ok, maybe not handsome, but very good looking, well, good looking, no, he's ok I think," "divorced" (what a coincidence), half-Italian, half-Jewish, Brooklyn-residing 32 year old standing next to his BMW, just happened to ask my mother, whether she knew any nice girls for him, as all single 32 year old men are prone to do when they meet a 50 year old woman in a parking lot.

When did it become de rigeur to pick up strangers in parking lots for your daughter? Why is that ok? Don't most parents take the, "Hey, you need to prove yourself worthy of my child" stance? Not the, "For Sale: 1 female, slightly used, healthy, 30yo, good teeth, child bearing hips. All inquiries considered."

The only thing I'm grateful for, is at least she didn't give out my number and took his instead. She used to give my number out freely, because "it's the man's job to call." What she didn't understand was that it shouldn't be any and every man.

But now, she won't relent. "Did you call him? Just call him. Why don't you call him?"

Because, if I call him, then I have to go out with him, then I have to date him, then I have to marry him, then I have to have children with him, then I have to grow old and die with him. There's no end to her harassment, and I know she won't stop with the pushing and the questions, and I just don't want to open the door to that kind of torture.

She doesn't understand that there have to be boundaries. The next boundary I'm setting up? A moat full of alligators and flesh eating piranhas. Oh, but that won't work. She'll just fly over it on her broom. At least the flying monkeys will give me a heads up that she's on her way.