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!
Friday, April 28, 2006
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,
MLIGCS
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,
MLIGCS
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.
AND THE CAR DOWNSTAIRS WAITING FOR THE GOING OUT CREW IS A FUCKING ROLLS ROYCE PHANTOM. WITH A DRIVER/BODYGUARD AT THE WHEEL. AND THE CAR IS FULL OF YOUNG, HANDSOME MEN, WAIVING US IN.
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.
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.
AND THE CAR DOWNSTAIRS WAITING FOR THE GOING OUT CREW IS A FUCKING ROLLS ROYCE PHANTOM. WITH A DRIVER/BODYGUARD AT THE WHEEL. AND THE CAR IS FULL OF YOUNG, HANDSOME MEN, WAIVING US IN.
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: https://get-together.org/index.php?lc=bc28af6f750004729474ccbb403bd0ee
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: https://get-together.org/index.php?lc=bc28af6f750004729474ccbb403bd0ee
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.
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.
MWUAHAHHAHAHA.
"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.
MWUAHAHHAHAHA.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
F.I.R.E.D.
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.....
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......
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
Alcoholism
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Padded Walls in My Apartment Are Working Out Well
I brought a witness. Since no one believed me, I needed someone who could testify, if necessary, to the veracity of my story.
Because if you’re going to get arrested for murdering your family, and you need to use an insanity defense, someone has to be there to testify that I suffered severe emotional abuse which ultimately led to my showing up to Family Night Friday’s with an Uzi.
When we left, she asked, “Are they for real? Is it always like that?”
And I told her that actually, since there were less of them in attendance this week, it wasn’t as bad as usual.
This weeks topic: nose jobs. More specifically, my apparent dire need of one, and unfathomable refusal in accepting the fact that I “have a problem.”
As my girlfriend put it, it appears that my family is extremely offended by my nose. My nose must have done something terrible to them. Because all night, they were talking to me as if I was a small idiotic child who was unnecessarily afraid of jumping from the baby diving board into the shallow end of the pool.
I’m not sure what they think will happen if I get a nose job. I’m not sure why they think that I would want to pay $10,000 for a nose job. I’m not sure why if my mother had one, or various people we know have had one, that means I should have one.
I’ve spoken to some friends who are plastic surgeons. And from their perspective, they told me that although a doctor is pretty much willing to do any kind of surgery you want, I’m really not in dire need of a nose job the way my family seems to be pushing it. They just don’t like the fact that I’m ok with myself I guess.
Maybe that’s why my aunt once recommended that I get cheek-bone implants. Or why everyone is always telling me to go grow my nails and get a manicure and pedicure. Or why my grandmother keeps telling me I’m too skinny, while my aunts tell me I lost weight, or gained weight, or maintained my weight well. Or why my uncle’s wife recommended that I tattoo my eyes to make it look like I’m always wearing eye liner. Or why the women in my family constantly tell me to cut my hair to my shoulders (with the males in the background vehemently shaking their heads no). Or why the nose job conversation is so frequent.
I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t get married without a nose job. Or get a job. Or somehow function in society without people shrieking in fear and revulsion when they see me. Let’s be serious, until there’s an angry mob outside my apartment with torches looking to run me out of town, I’m going to believe that I look fine.
But people, if you have daughters, please, no matter what, try to make them feel good about themselves. Be nurturing, be loving. Tell them they’re wonderful. Because Family Night Friday’s shouldn’t be marred by the staccato sounds of an Uzi going off. Ruins the whole vibe. And then no one gets to enjoy Grandma’s famous home made chocolate cake.
Because if you’re going to get arrested for murdering your family, and you need to use an insanity defense, someone has to be there to testify that I suffered severe emotional abuse which ultimately led to my showing up to Family Night Friday’s with an Uzi.
When we left, she asked, “Are they for real? Is it always like that?”
And I told her that actually, since there were less of them in attendance this week, it wasn’t as bad as usual.
This weeks topic: nose jobs. More specifically, my apparent dire need of one, and unfathomable refusal in accepting the fact that I “have a problem.”
As my girlfriend put it, it appears that my family is extremely offended by my nose. My nose must have done something terrible to them. Because all night, they were talking to me as if I was a small idiotic child who was unnecessarily afraid of jumping from the baby diving board into the shallow end of the pool.
I’m not sure what they think will happen if I get a nose job. I’m not sure why they think that I would want to pay $10,000 for a nose job. I’m not sure why if my mother had one, or various people we know have had one, that means I should have one.
I’ve spoken to some friends who are plastic surgeons. And from their perspective, they told me that although a doctor is pretty much willing to do any kind of surgery you want, I’m really not in dire need of a nose job the way my family seems to be pushing it. They just don’t like the fact that I’m ok with myself I guess.
Maybe that’s why my aunt once recommended that I get cheek-bone implants. Or why everyone is always telling me to go grow my nails and get a manicure and pedicure. Or why my grandmother keeps telling me I’m too skinny, while my aunts tell me I lost weight, or gained weight, or maintained my weight well. Or why my uncle’s wife recommended that I tattoo my eyes to make it look like I’m always wearing eye liner. Or why the women in my family constantly tell me to cut my hair to my shoulders (with the males in the background vehemently shaking their heads no). Or why the nose job conversation is so frequent.
I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t get married without a nose job. Or get a job. Or somehow function in society without people shrieking in fear and revulsion when they see me. Let’s be serious, until there’s an angry mob outside my apartment with torches looking to run me out of town, I’m going to believe that I look fine.
But people, if you have daughters, please, no matter what, try to make them feel good about themselves. Be nurturing, be loving. Tell them they’re wonderful. Because Family Night Friday’s shouldn’t be marred by the staccato sounds of an Uzi going off. Ruins the whole vibe. And then no one gets to enjoy Grandma’s famous home made chocolate cake.
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