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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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?!

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.