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."