Why I Should Live Walking Distance From Work

Not only is my fun voyage through the Candyland of subway systems comprised of miserable, corporate drones (like myself) on auto pilot, or gang-banger types with baggy pants and shmatas on their heads, or annoying tourists with their inappropriate laughter and excitement at being in New York City on their way to the Statue of Liberty, or even a homeless person begging (wearing $100 sneakers mind you) under the sign that clearly states "Give to Charity, Just Not on the Subway."

But today, a little treat was brought my way. A little yummy morsel of fun. This morning a 50 year old man with a long white beard, decided it was his turn to save my soul. And so, he began proselytizing, PROSELYTIZING in a booming voice, in the middle of a crowded subway, about our doom. For 20 minutes. About how I (and all non-believers) will surely go to hell if I don't accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. Predicting images of Hell, where even the innocent go, if they haven't accepted Jesus. Lakes with fire, eternal misery, damnation, blah blah fucking blah. I was like, what's the difference between Hell and NOW?!?!? Seems a little redundant. He said it didn't matter what denomination I was, so long as I accepted Jesus, I would be saved.

And then he got to the part that made my lawyer ears perk up. (We're always in it for the loopholes.) He said, that if I died without accepting Jesus, I would have to pay for my sins myself. But if I accepted Jesus, he would take on my sins, as my Savior. Silly me, here I thought I was paying for my sins as I go, kind of like the cell phone plan.

Hhhmm, I didn't know Jesus would take over my bag-o-sins. Hey, this guy might be onto something. If I don't accept Jesus, I go directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200. If I DO accept Jesus, I could be living it up in Heaven, sipping Mai Tai's with Liberace. (You know he's in Heaven. The only way Hell would let in that many sequins is when it froze over, even they have standards). You know, like the Catholics. They have the right idea with that whole confession, screw-your-wife's-best-friend-in-your-marriage-bed-using-your-wife's-dildo-and-then-confess thing. Hey, what's a few Our Father's or Hail Mary's to avoid eternal damnation? Get with the program people!

The only people really listening to him appeared to be the gang-bangers. All the little Jewish corporate types in their Banana Republic issue-gray pants/blue shirt-uniforms stood quietly, avoiding eye contact. Of course, the unfriendly eye-contact-avoidance-head-bob is pretty common, and so it may not have had anything to do with threats of a new Sodom and Gomorrah. At least the gang-banger types were listening. I would rather they be devout Christians, than hoodlums. Actually, in today's America, I'm not so sure there's really a difference. Seems almost everyone gets to wreak havoc without repercussions. But then again, what does a Jewish girl from New York know about such things....

But I appreciated the guy's efforts in trying to save my soul. My apparently damned soul. Fire, brimstone, hail, locusts. I still don't really see the difference between Hell and being a lawyer.

A Day in the Life....

6:30 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:31 a.m. - realize I have another 29 minutes before I have to get up.
6:43 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:43 a.m. - realize I have another 17 minutes before I have to get up.
6:51 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:52 a.m. - realize I have another 8 precious minutes before I have to get up.
7:48 a.m. - wake up in a panic because I overslept. Begin mad rush to the office. Contemplate showering, discard idea as frivolous.
8:23 a.m. - trip out the door, half dressed, no makeup, unshowered, one shoe on.
9:00 a.m. - get to office and drink two cups of coffee.
9:07 a.m. - work, work, work, work, work work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work....
11:32 a.m. - have a partner talk to me like I'm an imbecile that should be on display at the primate section of the zoo.
11:36 a.m. - WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK.....
2:17 p.m. - realize I forgot to eat lunch again. Grab a protein bar, two more cups of coffee.
2:29 p.m. - work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work....
3:56 p.m. - look out my window and get distracted by absolutely nothing. Stare dazedly out the window until the drool from my chin drips onto the back of my wrist and startles me back to reality. Wonder if I'll ever have sex again. Discard idea as frivolous.
4:02 p.m. - work, work, work, wor-
4:04 p.m. - go back to thinking about sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex -
4:25 p.m. - get interrupted by another partner (blush profusely even though partner has no idea I was fantasizing about things that are illegal in 39 states), get another assignment, that must be completed NOW. Silently curse the partner, his family, his children, his children's childre - what, oh sure, of course I have time to do this for you......
4:27 p.m. - work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work.....
11:07 p.m. - get home, eat hershey kisses and cheez-its for dinner. Wash hair for the first time in five days.
11:48 p.m. - watch the last few minutes of the Colbert Report and some kind of mind-numbing inane reality t.v.
12:28 a.m. - pray to the god in charge of making me a rich, pampered housewife. Go to bed.

The Circle of Life

It was a sneak attack. The morning after I took the subway with one of the partners, he shows up in my office all smiley-friendly, oozing good will. That should have been my first warning. "Have any time?" he asked. That's not really a question. Partners don't ask associates questions. They give orders in the form of questions, akin to the rules in Jeopardy. Questions are generally a prelude to impending misery. It's a warning shot to prepare yourself. He doesn't care if I have time. He's going to give me an assignment, and he wants it done, even if it means I don't get to shower or sleep for the next four days. That's what I get for being polite and making small talk on the subway. I should never stray from my usual no-eye-contact scowl. Even with people I know. Once we leave this building, all bets are off, dammit, I shouldn't have to pretend to care about your kids and flooded basement on my time.

"Sure," I chirp, cooperatively. As if "take this assignment and shove it" was an option. He proceeds to tell me about a really great case, very big, lots of work, sexy stuff. You know, because securities are sex-E. There's a team already working on it, but they haven't really been giving it the attention it needs, so of course, I'm being brought in to do the grunt work that the maladjusted first-year freak won't do. I hate that weirdo. And I hate that I have to pick up his slack. And I hate that the partners don't have the balls to say, "Hey, Weirdo, just because you're a FREAK doesn't mean we're not going to ride you like we do all our other associates, potential legal action by you alleging autism discrimination be damned!"

Two days later, at nine p.m., an even more senior associate and I are toiling away in the conference room, again, reviewing "important" documents, when Freak comes in with a small stack of papers, and tells us he's going home. GOING HOME!!!

Now I'm not one to pull rank, but there is definitely a chain of command in a law firm. If someone more senior than you is working on a case you are assigned to, you go NOWHERE without clearing it with them first. And you don't announce you're going home. You ASK if it's ok to leave. And you better ask in an overly solicitous, annoyingly-attentive waiter kind of way. There's no free-will in a law firm. We are all cogs, cogs in a hierarchy. And you my dear little Freak Mensa-sex having friend, are on the bottom of the food chain. So grab some Vaseline and just relax.

I shot a look of incredulity at the more senior associate. A look that screamed, "Hey! Do something! Say something! Look at all this work we have to get through!! This is anarchy!!!!"

He looked at me levelly, supremely unperturbed by this troubling display of egregious (unwritten) rule-breaking. I think I even witnessed a barely perceptible shoulder shrug. I was beside myself.

"Aren't you going to say anything?!?!" I demanded. He just looked at me. "Not to Freak. But the partner will hear about it. And so will the executive committee. Fucking tool. I've got a wife and kids at home with an hour and half commute between us. Freak's going to pay."

Now, if the Executive Committee hears about this, Freak can kiss 30% of his potential raise goodbye. I didn't want him to lose money. I just wanted him to do his share of the work. Oh well. Maybe some of that money will come my way. There may be no "I" in team, but there is "Me." Sucker.

Dear Abby's Got Nothin' on Me

My girlfriend was complaining today that she hasn't had sex in over a year. I begged her to let go of her sophomoric Disney ideals of commitment and love and just go out there and get laid.

I mean, sometimes a girl just needs a good shtupping. And she's not getting any younger. There's a plethora, an abundance, a large goddamned number of very fuckable men in New York. I even offered my European lover who will be visiting soon for a hot roll in the hay. She wasn't interested.

Half an hour later, this IM conversation occurs:

I was just on the Victoria's Secret website.

Thank goodness.

Yeah, they have some really cute bathing suits.

A 30 year old woman that hasn't had sex in over a year DOES NOT GO TO Victoria's Secret for BATHING SUITS!!!!! Get yourself some crotchless panties and go fuck someone already. Sleep with that Italian bartender you met the other night.

But I don't speak Italian.

Moaning and praying are universal. I have a feeling "fuck me now" and "Oh god" will translate just fine.

At Least No One Told Me to Turn My Head and Cough

I've been given the opportunity, many many times over, to make my overbearing Jewish mother ridiculously happy. And I never came through.

I have dated doctors in almost every single speciality. And I managed to not land even one. Not one doctor is willing to marry me and provide me with the life my mother always dreamed of.

There was the radiologist that wasn't Jewish.
The radiologist that was Jewish, but couldn't stop screaming Yale in public, as he repeatedly told me and anyone within a hundred yard radius that he's doing his residency at YALE! YALE!! YALE, YALE, YALE, YALE, YALE!!!!!
The ophthalmologist that wasn't Jewish.
The ophthalmologist that was Jewish, but was using me as a rebound to get over his non-Jewish ex.
The ophthalmologist that was Jewish, wasn't using me as a rebound, and just wasn't interested. Bastard.
The ear, nose and throat doctor who only wanted to have sex.
The gynecologist with uncomfortably long nails. (Take a minute....eeeewwwwwww. Exhale.)
The dermatologist with the yellow corvette. (God help us all).
The cardiologist that was a little too into the S&M. (I'm not crawling across the floor in some rubber getup holding a crop between my teeth. Not for free anyway.)
The cardiologist with the fake leg. And lazy eye.
The pediatrician. Who likes kids?!
The orthopedic surgeon that was a terrifying republican.
The oral surgeon whose penis curved so far to the left, it hurt.
The podiatrist that had me on a rotation of 12 different girls.
The emergency room doctor that actually liked me right away, which made him totally undesirable. Obviously.
The plastic surgeon who kept offering to do free surgery on me if we ended up together. You know, because it's always great to hear you need a little work from a professional while you're on a date with him.
And, last but certainly not least, the neurosurgeon that I humiliated myself in front of, drunkenly professed my love to (on our fifth date), chased for six months, worshiped and obsessed over, who had the nerve to not love me back. I know, I can't believe it either.

Honesty is NOT Always the Best Policy

There is a breed of man I know that I really don't understand. It's the guy that refuses to lie to his girlfriend about things he really needs to lie about.

I'm not talking about lying about last weekend when he was talking to some girl and tripped and somehow ACCIDENTALLY ended up inside of her in the bathroom of the club while he was out with the boys. I'm talking about the kind of lying that will only buy him peace of mind and will give his girlfriend the answers she wants to hear.

He insists on total, brutal, painful honesty. He thinks it's the only way, and feels that what he did in the past won't upset her now. And if it does, it's her problem. Silly silly man. If she has a problem, now YOU have a problem. So just save her feelings and save your mental well-being and lie. For god's sake, please, just lie!!

"No sweetheart, of course I would never want a threesome with you and someone else."

"No, I wasn't looking at her because I think she's pretty. I was staring at her lazy eye/club foot/fat ass (or insert anything ANYTHING you can think of that will sound plausible)."

"Yes, I love it when we make love." (Look, I know this one's hard, I even throw up a little in my mouth when I have to use it, but just suck it up and do it anyway.)

"You don't look bloated to me."

"I've never paid for sex."

"You are my type."

"I'm attracted to women with (insert hair/eye color/height/body type of the GIRL YOU ARE CURRENTLY DATING)." (A brunette NEVER needs to know you have a penchant for blonds. Spare yourself a future agony because god help you if she ever catches you checking out a blond.)

"You're the best girlfriend I've ever had."

"The craziest sexual thing I've ever done? That time you and I (fill in the blank)." She doesn't need to know about the two strippers in Vegas with the swing. SHE. DOESN'T. EVER. NEED. TO. KNOW.

"I never got a girl pregnant." (Unless you have little Bobby Jr.'s running around, what happened between you and your girlfriend when you were 16 is irrelevant to anything going today.)

And we will return the favor.

"You're the best lover I've ever had."

"Oh really? I never noticed that it curves to the left."

"I've never had a threesome."

"Yes, I came."

"Of course I fantasize about having sex with women."

"I don't care how much money you make."

"I really enjoy swallowing."

"I've never used a sex swing. Hey, what IS a sex swing?" *blink blink*

"I only masturbate to you."

"I've only given blow jobs to men I was in a relationship with. Really."

"I love your mother."

It's a delicate balance that needs to be maintained. You need to lie about things that can't be changed, have no impact anymore and will only upset her if she knows. Because if she's upset, you know you will be upset, mainly because she'll TORTURE you until you are upset. And there's no need to have another crying jag, that turns into a five hour talk that ends at 3 in the morning on a random Tuesday night. Spare yourself.

Exhibit "B" in Learning How to Appreciate What You Have

When a hot (like causes car accidents hot) doctor friend who happens to be a millionaire, decides that SHE's going to now date women, you know you have either entered Bizarro World, or there is such a dearth of men willing to get into a relationship in New York that even a woman who loves LOVES the cock, like I mean, "Mmmm, what's for dinner? Cock! How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie cock? Yum yum fun, cock! Cock, it's the new white meat. Can I have a double order of cock and a diet coke please?" needs to become an Anne Hesh lesbian.

This does not bode well for the rest of us.

They Moved My Office

I've been moved to Death Row.

Death Row consists of all the named and equity partners. They did it on purpose. They said since I'm relatively new, I should sit upstairs, where I'll get to meet more people.

I wanted to ask what was I supposed to do on the days I come in drunk, in the same clothes as the day before, at 10:30, now that I'm sitting on Death Row. But I didn't ask. I didn't think it was appropriate.

A good friend is leaving the firm. She's moving to Vegas. VEGAS. It's too bad she's leaving, she's really great to have around. Fucking bitch-ass whore. I'll miss her. But I'll visit. And then I'll blog about it, because really, what happens in Vegas NEVER stays there. People always come back with stories and souveniers, like herpes and decorative shot glasses from the Bellagio. You know, for the memories.

Exhibit "A" in Learning How to Appreciate What You Have

"Hey iam Jay,
i just wanted 2 say hi i liked your profile and love your pics your such a hottie , so if u wana chatt some more get back 2 me , i promise i wouldnt bite
lIAM A NICE JEWISH BOY
talk 2u soon
Jay
ps your such a hottie"

Like 'Nam, those that have survived the dating world in New York and miraculously find themselves in a relationship, albeit a rocky one, never NEVER want to go back to receiving emails like the one above, that for some ungodly reason, suddenly show up on their unused MySpace account. Brings new meaning to the phrase, 'lets try to work things out.'

You Know It's Bad When Even a Twenty Year Old Loses Hope for the Future

"And if this relationship also doesn't work out for you, then what? What?! Anvils?!?!"