My Life Is God's Comic Strip

Fucking Wonderland

2007-11-27T07:57:00.000-05:00

So I know it's rather ambitious of me to expect anything from a country that can't even make a proper cocktail, but am I crazy to be annoyed at the guy who beeped at me this morning?

Because the thing is, I was walking on a sidewalk (or what passes for a sidewalk here - which is another blog entry entirely), a sidewalk he was trying to DRIVE ON. And apparently I was in his way, walking in the designated pedestrian area RIGHT NEXT TO A PERFECTLY USABLE - AND AVAILABLE - STREET.

And the beep was not just any, "Hey, I'm behind you so watch out, beep beep." It was one of those annoyed beeps, the ones that last just a second longer than necessary, telling you the person feels that you have violated their right of way.

Sadly, today is not the first time this has happened. You would think that after having lived here for a year, I would have gotten used to those little nuances that make a place "special," but I haven't had a proper martini in a year either and I'm in no mood to be generous. My middle finger did feel very generous though, and came out to play. In a friendly salute to the jackass DRIVING on the sidewalk. I may be losing my mind, but at least I haven't lost my manners.

Why I can't stand the general population

2007-11-19T04:07:00.000-05:00

So, I'm not sure I'm up on all the cultural differences between Americans and Greeks, but I think that under normal circumstances, most people would react the way I did.

We were invited to a birthday party thrown by an acquaintance of my boyfriend at his house. The usual, dinner, drinks, cake, good times. I didn't know anyone, and my boyfriend only knew the birthday boy. I figured we'd manage.

Turns out, certain types of people like to have certain types of fun, that may not be suitable for everyone. Food? Sure. Drinks? Obviously. Cake? Yum! Porn? Girl-on-girl blond boobie sex porn? Um, I'm not quite sure what to say.

I was expecting to go to a dinner party with other couples. Well, there was dinner. And there were other couples. Hell, there were even some single girls milling about. Not one of the men there was single. So I'm starting to wonder why WHY on earth they would think it's appropriate to put on some good old fashioned porn in the middle of a birthday party.

And why, after ten minutes, am I the only girl with enough balls to be like, "OK, enough with the porn guys," while the rest of the women sat squirming, with averted eyes, trying to pretend they were fine with it, when they so clearly were becoming really upset. I figured what the hell, I'll be the obnoxious, big-mouthed American. Again. It's obviously not a stretch.

A couple of the guys tried to act like I was being a prude, but I wasn't falling for it. For god's sake, we're not horny teenagers anymore and we can all have sex just about whenever we want. It's not appropriate to put on lesbian porn in the middle of a dinner party when more than half the party is uncomfortable.

Even the teachers I work with agree with me, and they're too stupid to understand much of anything. I mean really.

Mental note to self - add Crime Fighting to Skills section of resume

2007-07-10T04:28:00.000-04:00

So, along with my many talents of house-girlfriend-ery and ass scratching, I can now add crime fighting to my list of accomplished skills.

We just got back from a trip to Italy, and I actually stopped a crime from happening there. That’s right, I know you’re surprised, but I used my super-human strength, panther-like reflexes and unparalleled ability to make life-altering decisions in the split of a second to stop a pick-pocket from stealing a girl’s wallet from her backpack.

I won’t tell you the details, but let’s just say creating a scene was involved, which is really something out of my element.

The Mayor of Milan is going to name a street after me and he presented me with an official State Medal (which matches perfectly with my Super-Hero costume – nothing but style in Milan!).

I spent the rest of my vacation signing autographs, kissing babies, saving cats out of trees and dumping large quantities of money into the Italian economy for shoes, bags and belts. I know, there’s no end to my generosity.

Sadly, it's still all Greek to me

2007-06-30T01:12:00.000-04:00

So my job hunting has been quite unsuccessful, and I therefore decided to fill my downtime with some Greek classes.

I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to learn something other than “I fuck your village” and “Your donkey is better looking than your wife.” Let’s be serious, a girl needs some everyday terms too, like, “I’ll take one in every color,” and “Do these come with five inch heels?”

So for eight glorious weeks, I attended Greek classes with three Germans, an English couple, and a girl from Mexico. Needless to say, our group comprised of a wonderful and invigorating expanse of cultures, (professional drinkers), languages, (“Prost!” “Cheers!” “Salud!” and “Bottom’s up!”), ideas, (“Hey, why don’t we have a drink after class?”) and ways of life (“But it’s only 12:00 in the afternoon.” “Well, okay. Let’s wait a few minutes.”).

I must say, I was rather successful in the class and performed exceptionally well compared to the others. (I out-drank two out of three Germans, the Mexican girl, and occasionally went head-to-head with the English woman).

It’s really amazing how people (alcoholics) from such different reaches can come together for a few hours a week and connect (drink all day) and work with each other to learn how to get by (get each other home drunk in the middle of the day without being arrested for public disorderliness).

I can’t wait for Level II Greek to begin in September. I feel the class will present a whole slew of new and exciting challenges (Shots? Drinking games? Strip poker?). Ahhh, the possibilities are endless, and my future looks bright (bleary).

Clearly Related

2007-06-28T09:28:00.000-04:00

So yesterday, I get a phone call at 10:30 a.m. my time from my baby sister, which means it’s 3:30 a.m. her time, on a school night.

I answer, and I all hear is, “I’m a crazy bitch. A CRAZY BEEE’ATCH!” Obviously, this is going to be a good story.

Apparently, her boyfriend of a year and a half decided to stand her up at the movies, and instead picked up four random girls from the street and proceeded to play beer-pong with them and his roommates.

Needless to say, this did not go over well. And so, my little angel might have accidentally let the air out of his tires. Knowing he had to go to work the next day. Um, and also knowing he doesn’t have a spare. Oops.

My girlfriend asked me what’s the worst thing I ever did to a guy, and since there are so many examples, I chose the one I happened to remember off the top of my head.

One night, a few years ago, an old boyfriend, his cousin and his wife and I were out for a night on the town. Driving my car back to Long Island from the City around 4 in the morning, with his cousins in the back seat, my boyfriend decided to take issue with the fact that I was polite to someone who tried to pick me up that night. And proceeded to call me a WHORE repeatedly.

Last time I checked, politely refusing the offer of a drink from a guy that doesn’t know I’m at the bar with my boyfriend is not what I consider whorish behavior. If I had given the guy a blow-job in the bathroom, then we’d have something to debate.

But since my boyfriend was quite adamant that I was, in fact, a whore for being nice, I waited until we were in a suitably dangerous, industrial part of Queens before I convinced him to pull my car over and let me drive.

Once he was out of the car, I jumped over to the driver’s side, locked the doors, and drove away. His cousin’s wife started screaming immediately, so I threw them out of the car a block later, and then proceeded home.

Of course, they managed to get back, even though they were about half an hour from his car. Can’t win them all.

It’s good to know that insanity in this family is genetic. It’s important to have special moments and memories in order to bond with your siblings. It’s what separates us from the animals.

How to lose friends and piss people off

2007-05-29T07:22:00.000-04:00

So I pretty much hate people in general. Not specifically so much, more of an overall dislike of the masses.

And it’s nice when my hatred is reaffirmed by specific examples. Ridiculous, unbelievable things that don’t happen to normal people happen to me. Being “normal” might have something to do with it.

I previously wrote about how a Greek job website listed “Jewish” as a language and I thought that was funny. I also posted something very similar on a Jewish website I joined, which has my full name, my picture, my location, blah blah fucking blah.

As with most of my posts, someone from Greece decided to write me a ten paragraph diatribe about what a jerk I am, how bigoted I am to dare say something negative about the Greek culture, how utterly irresponsible I am to say such things, and to generally just shut my mouth. All anonymously, of course.

Since I’m rather experienced at dealing with these charming people who clearly have fulfilling, well-rounded lives, I decided to be nice and explain that I really didn’t mean any harm and it was all written in good fun.

Thank goodness for me, Ms. Anonymous was gracious enough to forgive my unforgivable behavior of criticizing her obviously superior culture, and she proceeded over the span of approximately two months to try to make friends with me through this Jewish website via numerous emails and helpful “hints” on how to get on here. I figured, better to be polite to Anonymous-Nasty-Comment-Leavers because those bitches are crazy.

Turns out, Anonymous-Nasty-Comment-Leaver is NOT some random woman here in Greece. Oh no, ANCL is actually my former college roommate; yeah, not only roommate, but best friend. We lost touch a few years ago and on a whim, she decided to Google me.

And once she found me and didn’t like what I wrote, she joined the Jewish website (she’s not Jewish), created a fake profile, wrote me a nasty comment, and then spent two months ANONYMOUSLY writing me and trying to be friends again before admitting who she really was.

Who does shit like that?!?! Um, Anonymous-Nasty-Comment-Leaver crazy bitches! Of course, I was so excited to finally get back in touch with her, I decided to make our reunion really poignant by telling her to take her crazy bitch self and FUCK OFF. I hate everybody.

Stupid is as Stupid Does; Hi, my name is Stupid

2007-05-15T05:13:00.000-04:00

So there’s something disconcerting about being in someone else’s territory all the time, but that’s what happens when you move to another country to shack up with your boyfriend.

You have no memories of your own in that place, no restaurants you went to with friends, no vacation spots, no street corners you slow danced on with boys, no ex’s to run into.

Thing is, the person you’re with DOES have all of those things, and I don’t have a problem with most of those things. Except the ex thing. I don’t want to be anywhere near an ex, because let’s be honest, it’s not comfortable being in the same room with a woman who knows what your boyfriend’s kisses are like, or, to be more honest, knows what it feels like to have his penis inside of her.

Imagine how disappointing to find out you have to go to a wedding attended by an ex. And not just any ex, but The Ex Ex, The One Whose Name Shall Never Be Uttered Unless You Want Your Face to Melt Off Ex.

But I had a game plan, which has served me well in the past, it’s called Avoidance. Good plan, perfect plan, WHEN YOU KNOW WHICH GIRL TO ACTUALLY AVOID.

But, if you’re an idiot like me, you spend half the night avoiding an entire section of the room, and pointing out who you MISTAKENLY believe is The Ex to girls you know, only to end up in the bathroom, unknowingly chatting up The Actual Ex for TEN MINUTES. The Ex who knows very well that you are the current Keeper of the Penis she once knew so well.

And you’re not understanding why your boyfriend’s cousins are staring at you like you’re insane for speaking to what seems like a perfectly normal girl, and not a woman purportedly capable of ripping the heads off her young, dicing them up and serving them as an aphrodisiac to Hitler and Genghis Khan before enjoying an ass-to-mouth gang-bang.

The sad thing is I probably wouldn’t recognize her again unless she walked up to me and said, “His penis does feel really good. Enjoy my leftovers.” Which I’ve been told is just like her. It’s important to wake up everyday with something to look forward to.

The "Cradle of Civilization" has some 'splaining to do

2007-05-10T08:51:00.000-04:00

So I’m looking for work in Greece. And of course, in today’s job market everything is on-line. Fill this out, check these boxes, pick any of the following that apply, blah blah fucking blah.

Ah, the languages section. Please select all languages that apply, use the “ctrl” key to select more than one. OK, “English,” check. Um, Farsi, Farsi? No, no Farsi. OK, next, Hebrew, where’s Hebrew….German, Greek, Italian. What, no Hebrew? Really? Italian, Japanese, Jewish, Norwegian…wait a minute, did I just read that right? JEWISH?! As a language category on a job hunting site?

We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

What the hell is Jewish as a language?

Do they mean Jewish, as in the Language of Guilt and Nagging as Perfected by the Matriarch for the past 5000 years? Maybe they mean Jewish, as in the annoying, “Oh. My. Gawd!” you hear all over the streets of New York. Or, maybe they mean the secret language Jews use when we’re busy killing Christian babies and using their blood for our Matzo during Passover. A Greek actually accused me that that's what really goes on, and I shouldn't try to deny it. The Cradle of Civilization indeed, my friends.

By the way, you're all invited to my house next year for not-so-secret Christian baby-blood Matzo. It's a family recipe perfected by my ancestors, I swear, you'll love it!

Glutton for Punishment

2007-05-09T07:41:00.000-04:00

So I decided, rather idiotically, to attempt ONE FINAL FORAY into Athens in the hopes of making some friends.

I invited everyone EVERYONE, all 200 members-everyone, of my ex-pat group to Friday afternoon coffee in my very cute part of town.

Email replies galore, “Sure, I can meet you at 3”, “I get out of work at 5, so I can be there at 6”, “I’ll be there….can’t wait.”

Based on the numerous and varied responses, I set the time for 5, figuring those who wanted to come earlier can come at five, and we can chat until those who could make it later would arrive.

By the way, it’s a good idea to make sure you’re on speaking terms with your boyfriend (the only person you know) when you decide to invite over 200 people to meet you for a cup of coffee.

Because when you’re sitting alone, FOR OVER AN HOUR, waiting PATHETICALLY for people who are CLEARLY NOT COMING, you would have at least one person to beg to join you so that you don’t look like the OBVIOUS LOSER YOU ARE.

I’ll remember that for the next time I try to set up coffee, which will be the third Friday of NEVER.

Mr. Opportunity doesn't know my name

2007-04-12T06:17:00.000-04:00

So I joined a new website and no, it's not an on-line dating site. Well, it could be, but that's not what I'm doing. I'm using the "networking/just friends" option. Really. No, I'm serious. Whatever, don't believe me.

It's actually a site for Jews, called The Chosen People. No, I'm kidding, it's actually called, We Really Do Think We're Better Than You and Hollywood IS Ours, So Suck It Mel Gibson.

I've found after chatting with people, ok, not exactly people, after chatting with men, yes MEN, (are you happy now?!) from all over, ok, that too is a lie, because I've been mainly chatting with men from Italy and England (**deep sigh**) and not from any scary eastern-block countries with Borat look-a-likes, that it's not easy being Jewish outside of New York, LA and Miami.

In New York, it's easy to take for granted that pretty much everyone you meet is from somewhere else, always different faces, nationalities, languages, colors, cultures. No big deal, we all get along.

For example, when my mom's best friend's non-Jewish husband passed away, the services were held in a Synagogue. When I asked her how come, she replied, "He's been living in New York for almost 40 years. It doesn't get more Jewish than that for Christ's sake!"

It appears though, that these men encounter a significant amount of anti-semitism in their respective countries when it comes to dating. And not necessarily because they are looking for Jewish women, but because the families of the non-Jewish women they date refuse to accept them. That sucks.

I mean, I know Jewish families that won't allow their kids to go out with non-Jews, but that's obvious, because we're the Chosen People, and that affords us certain privileges, like rejecting inferior religions.

But these poor guys? I feel terrible, I want to just hold them all to my heaving bosom, and make them feel better. Come to Momma, baby.

If I'd only known there were so many available Italian and English Jewish men just looking for a nice girl. I could have pretended to be a nice girl. At least for a little while. Ok, maybe not.

Where did it all go

2007-04-11T07:08:00.000-04:00

Your friends are old (and you by association!) when their conversations are comprised of the following:

"I just got an iPod."

"Welcome to the 21st Century."

"Who is this Fergie person who's all over the place?"

"Fergie? The Duchess of York, of course."

"Wow, she looks great. That whole Weight Watchers thing did wonders!"

If anyone is looking for me, I'll be getting a colonoscopy followed by an afternoon of cane-waving from my porch at anyone under the age of 65.

What's really in a name

2007-04-09T13:31:00.000-04:00

So I was in Israel for the past couple of weeks, staying with a "friend" and her family for her older brother's wedding and Passover.

My "friend" has a younger brother, much like my baby sister, lots of fun, nice to be around and a great conversationalist. Unlike my baby sister, this young man has a name I have never heard before, and after hearing his family call him by his name - or what I thought was his name - I too started calling him this.

Of course, what I thought I heard wasn't the proper way to pronounce his name. Actually, not only was it not the proper way to pronounce his name, it was an altogether incorrect name and one that may not even exist in Hebrew. It was, more to be exact, a name I apparently made up completely on my own. Go me.

Now, the dirty thing is, my "friend" and her little brother let me call him by this non-name for a WEEK AND A HALF before bothering to correct me. I mean, at the wedding, out with cousins, in front of their parents (who I think were just too polite to correct me and figured I suffered from a medium to severe form of retardation), if front of the in-laws, in front of friends.

Basically, my "friend" and her brother allowed me to make a total ass of myself in front of every single person I met. Now people, I've made an ass of myself before, that's certainly true. BUT THIS TIME, IT COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED!!!! Aarrgggg.

I'm going to believe she allowed me to be an idiot as a result of jealousy and fear that her family would like me more than they like her, which is a very real possibility. And I have decided to simply call her little brother Bob.

Man, I really love that girl. I'm going to make her cry one day for this.

Khristos Anesti!!!

2007-04-07T11:30:00.000-04:00

So tomorrow half the world will be celebrating the Christians' attempt to thwart the killing of Jesus by the Jews. As if he really went up to Heaven, body and all. But that's fine, because as I sit here, choking on this flavorless, dry piece of Matzo, I'll let you all believe that hoax.

Tomorrow, as in the Greek tradition, this Jewish New Yorker will be roasting a lamb, making lemon roasted potatoes, preparing village sausages, a veal stew, Greek orzo and a cheese pie for my pookie's family. I have to tell you though, rat poison is hard to find this time of year. But as always, I have prevailed.

So to all of you hoax believers, a Happy Easter to you and your families!!!!!

And remember, the Jews killed Jesus, even if he allegedly rose three little days later.

All good things.....

2007-04-05T16:10:00.000-04:00

So my ex-husband just got engaged and I thought I would give the lucky groom an engagement gift, you know, a little advice in the hopes of making the nuptials run smoother this time around. So here's my list on how to build a happy, successful marriage.

1. Hitting, shoving, punching, choking, and throwing things at your wife are not the best ways to show affection. Hard to believe, BUT TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.

2. Calling your wife a whore, a piece of shit and telling her you miss having sex with other women are not the kind of tender endearments Hallmark is talking about.

3. Secretly taping sex acts on your honeymoon won't go over well with your new bride. I know, it sounds crazy, but really, it's not.

4. If your single, overbearing mother starts to suddenly get sick at all of your major events, i.e. the meeting of the parents, the engagement party, the bridal shower, the wedding, your honeymoon, trips you have planned with your wife, please PLEASE please believe me this time that she's faking it.

5. If you're in the middle of having sex with your new wife on a Saturday afternoon, and your mother calls you repeatedly, over and over and OVER again until you answer the phone in the middle of having sex, maybe this time you should finally tell her that ONE PHONE CALL IS SUFFICIENT AND THAT YOU WILL GET BACK TO HER AFTER YOU AND YOUR WIFE HAVE SHOT YOUR LOADS. Because she did the same thing last week, and the week before, and the week before that, and it's tiring getting it back up.

6. Throwing your wife out of a hotel room with her things, in a foreign country, when she has no money, after hitting her and screaming at her because she asked you not to tell your mom something private (when right there in the hotel room on the phone with your mom, you totally spill the beans AND tell your mom that your wife specifically asked you not to say anything and an argument ensues) might be illegal in that country. This time.

7. If your wife gets home from work two hours after you do, and starts to make dinner and asks you to set the table, asking her "why she can't fucking cook one fucking meal on her fucking own" is not a nice way to start the evening. Oh, and if she kisses your forehead when she comes in, wiping the kiss away in disgust is NOT NICE.

8. Let your wife have contact with her family. Really. They exist, even after you're married, no matter how much you wish they didn't. The Jedi Mind Trick doesn't work here.

9. Make friends outside of your immediate family and let your wife have friends outside of your immediate family. You might have some fun that doesn't involve the telling, re-telling and re-re-telling of family stories.

10. Don't throw your wife out of the car in the middle of a residential area and screech away only to end up at your mother's house. And maybe, just maybe, this time you should advise your mother not to call your seething - WALKING - wife to tell her not to tell anyone in her family about this minor, itty bitty little event. Oh, and while you're at your mom's house, you might also want to refrain from telling your mother every single word your wife has ever uttered to you in total confidence.

I mean, these tips might not be for everyone, but please feel free to pick and choose any ten of the ten above. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

There are no stupid questions, only stupid men

2007-03-21T15:34:00.000-04:00

"You know, the best sex a man can have is a really good hand job. I mean, when the girl knows what she's doing, you can just sit back, relax, and enjoy. She can control the motion, the pressure, the slickness, the speed. It really doesn't get much better...But then, the blowjob is also pretty good, if the girl has some talent, that's really important. Not much tops a good blowjob, I guess, unless you're having sex and the girl is on top. I mean, a girl that can ride like a cowboy while you lay there and enjoy is hard to beat, watching her move and have her way with you.....By the way, what's the best kind of sex a girl can have?"

"Alone."

Ride me Big....Sheldon

2007-02-19T12:11:00.000-05:00

I was having a conversation the other day with a male friend of mine about dirty talk. He claimed to be too embarrassed to dirty talk in bed because he thought that would only open him up to ridicule.

I asked what he meant by that, to which he succinctly replied, "Women talk to each other. And laugh at us. And I’m not going to be that guy."

And I found that odd. Of course women talk and laugh at men and the various foibles they go through in the bedroom. Let’s be serious here.

Men talk to each other. Not necessarily to laugh at the girl, but you know, in that macho wacho, "Yeah, I fucked her good" caveman speak they have. Men talk about women in a way that bolsters their virility, creating a story that highlights their prowess.

But I think in reality, women will only ridicule a guy if she’s not really that interested in him, no matter what he does. For example, if he takes her to a fancy restaurant on the first date, she’ll think he’s trying too hard and call him a loser. But if she really likes him, she’ll tell her friends he's awesome.

So if a girl is having sex with a guy she’s not emotionally attached to, (and yes, it’s true, women DO have casual sex) she might laugh at him a little. Ok, fine, she’ll destroy him and make him the butt of all her inside jokes with her friends and he’ll forever be known as The Freaky Dirty Talking Guy, or the Guy That Wore a Diaper, or the Hey Let’s Invite Fido in to Lick Peanut Butter Off My Balls While We Screw Guy.

But on the flip side, if she does like him, he could probably do no wrong in the bedroom. I think it’s more a matter of the feelings two people have for each other rather than the actual actions that go on in the bedroom that determine a woman’s loose lips.

Unless of course the guy wants to talk dirty. I mean, wearing a diaper or having a dog lick your balls during sex is one thing, but dirty talk? That guy clearly has some serious issues.

BFs 4 Eva'

2007-02-15T07:12:00.000-05:00

So I managed another foray out into Athens in the desperate attempt to make some friends. I joined a group of expats on Yahoo who actually go out and DO things. And by DO things I mean they get drunk and eat Thai food. A match made in heaven.

So I show up to the local Hard Rock on Saturday night, with my boyfriend in tow, because “God knows who these people are!!!!” and “It sounds to me like it’s just a group to facilitate casual sex!!!”

Turns out the group is mainly comprised of English people. Now, I don’t know too many English, but I’ve always been a fan. I mean why not? Great accents, razor sharp humor, some good movies (Love Actually). Hey, let’s all be friends!

From what I've seen of the English in New York, they're usually drinking it up, falling all over the place, singing for no particular reason, and basically doing anything they feel like. Pretty much my kind of people.

Apparently, the English are not fans. Oh no, not fans of the Yippee Ka-yey Americanos. Nope.

“Ohhhhhhh, you’re American? Let me guess, New York?”

You know, said with that condescending Thurston Howell III clenched-tooth underbite. The whole “Muffy, dahling, how on earth are we going to get off this island? And where are my bloody cucumber sandwiches?!”

“So, what do you do here?”

“Well, right now I’m a desperate housegirlfriend, but I’m looking for a job and some Greek lessons.”

“Oh, how nice for you to have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do all day. I think I know some American girls who live in your town and also do nothing all day. I should introduce you, it would seem you have a lot in common.”

“Wow, so charm school is required in England, huh? Valedictorian, were you?”

“Yes, well most Greek lessons are at night, because the people that come here generally have to work during the day. Not that you have that problem. But I’m sure you’ll find something. The University offers classes, and it’s not that expensive, although from the looks of it, money doesn’t seem to be an issue for you or your boyfriend.”

“I think you and I should exchange Best-Friend charms, because really, I haven’t felt this kind of love since my ex-husband tossed me across the room and called me a whore. Come here and give me a hug!”

Instead of trying to make friends, I’m probably better off sitting on the corner, dousing myself in gasoline and setting myself on fire. Not that anyone would notice such an everyday event anyway.

Valentine's Day, boo hoo, here's a box of tissue, you big baby

2007-02-14T07:18:00.000-05:00

So I woke up this morning and realized it's Valentine's Day. Actually, I knew Valentine's Day was approaching because Spawn, my darling baby sister, has been on the phone with me for the past week screaming various threats and epithets about her boyfriend and his, how shall I put this delicately, um, lack of interest in the holiday.

I, of course, am of the school of "Valentine's Day is a bunch of Hallmark malarkey" while on the inside secretly hoping for someone, ANYONE, to send me carnations soaked in red food dye, or some pastel colored, heart shaped candy with inane, meaningless sayings, or even some drug store chocolate whose aftertaste can only be washed away with gasoline. You know, I'm a real romantic. Just don't tell anyone.

Here in Greece, the holiday is a non-event. And so, there are very few women and sensitive men sitting around at home, lamenting their singledom. Unlike my sister's boyfriend, who is scrambling, as we speak, to avoid the hot poker she will repeatedly stab him in the neck with if he doesn't do something to appease her Valentine's Day beast.

Ahhh, to be 21 again and actually give a shit.

Anyway, I wanted to wish all of you who care a happy Valentine's Day and not to be sad today if you're alone. You were probably alone last night, and you'll probably be alone tomorrow night, so really, there's no need to be dramatic about it today.

And remember everyone, the Jews killed Jesus. And probably St. Valentine. You might be next.

There's something almost precious about starting anew

2007-01-27T15:16:00.000-05:00

So my things finally arrived in Greece, approximately three months after I arrived, and approximately two months LATER than they were supposed to arrive.

Of course, I want to thank the worthless, good for nothing workers at the Greek docks who decided to partake in their annual Christmas strike.

Thanks guys!!! I loved living with patio furniture and four sweaters for three months, really. Brought back college memories. You guys are great. I hope a rabid dog chews off your nuts so you can't reproduce using your inferior genes.

The good news is, my furniture fits in the apartment. The even better news is I found out that I totally overpaid for shipping. Isn't that great?!

When shipping things abroad, for those of you who may not know, you pay by the square foot. And the shipping companies will generally recommend you have your things packed by them, you know, "because of customs and issues that may arise...."

Of course, when I unpacked my alleged 430 square feet of goods the moving company insisted I had, I realized that approximately 150 of that was empty space. Not packing paper or bubble wrap. Oh no. 150 square feet at over $13.00 a foot. DO THE MATH.

I actually enjoy getting sodomized without lube. I find it rather novel; a unique experience unlike any other. I highly recommend it to those of you with nothing to do on a random Saturday night. Come on, live a little.

Vaseline? No, no thanks. None for me!!! I like to bleed from the ass. Reminds me of the good old law firm days.

Betty Crocker has opened a can of whip-ass

2007-01-05T05:40:00.000-05:00

Since sacrificing myself on the altar of domesticity, I have realized a number of things. First of all, "take out" is not one of the four major food groups. As such, I have discovered that I can actually cook. Which is relatively surprising because two months ago was the first time I ever used an oven. I'm 31 years old. This, this is sad.

I have learned that it takes about seventeen times longer to make a meal than to eat it. And about twelve times longer to clean up after. We're talking a 17:1:12 ratio. This is simply poor time management; the opportunity cost is way off. Especially when the alternative is a three minute phone call, exchanging money for food, eating, and then throwing everything away. A friendlier 1/17:1:1/12 ratio if you will.

I have learned that the fairies at the dry cleaners who spread sunshine and joy for only $.99 a shirt are not the only ones expected to know how to get wrinkles out of a button-down. I am expected to have fairy dust as well. It actually comes with my new iron.

I have learned that the killer dust that continues to cover every surface of my apartment no matter how many times a day I clean and how tightly I shut the windows is most likely nuclear clouds of radiation being blown around Europe from Chernobyl.

I have learned that the washing machine is actually not an evil contraption created by some crazed NASA scientist who's watched one too many episodes of Star Trek and is trying to send everyone through a worm hole.

And I have further learned that there are more than just "whites" and "everything else" when classifying clothing. Of course, gone are the days when the dry cleaning fairies would make that distinction for me....

I have learned that two people, for some strange reason, cannot subsist on only champagne, soy sauce packets, and granola, and that food shopping is an evolving, continuous chore that actually needs to be done more than once every never.

And most importantly, I have learned that I MUST FIND A JOB.

I'm too old to get home at 7 in the morning....

2007-01-01T06:25:00.000-05:00

Well, it's the new year, with promises of a whole slew of new resolutions, prayers, and intentions that will crash miserably to the ground and get washed away into the nearest sewer.

But until then, I want to wish you all happiness, health, fulfillment and love.

And don't forget, the Jews did kill Jesus.

Happy New Year everybody!!!

Day 5,674,758,320

2006-12-28T10:22:00.000-05:00

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.

Ahhhh, the holidays....

2006-12-23T05:13:00.000-05:00

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!!!!!

Conversation you shouldn't have with a JEW

2006-12-06T07:18:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-06T04:52:00.000-05:00

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.

Hanging up my disco shoes

2006-12-04T05:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Sleeping Beauty

2006-11-29T04:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Et tu Discovery Channel?

2006-11-16T08:33:00.000-05:00

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.

NEXT!

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.

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

2006-11-14T10:56:00.000-05:00

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.

A test run in preparation for the real last hurrah

2006-10-25T11:39:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-10-17T19:05:00.000-04:00

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?

Mulan

2006-10-16T17:37:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-10-15T22:28:00.000-04:00

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.

Inebriated Lunchtime Banter

2006-10-11T15:50:00.000-04:00

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.

Next stop - The emergency room

2006-10-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

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.

Lost Opportunities

2006-10-05T12:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Office Stalker Quotes of the Day - Weekly Wrap Up

2006-09-22T09:06:00.000-04:00

Monday
Am I ever going to see your boobs?!

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

Tuesday
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.

Wednesday
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.

Thursday
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.

Friday
Just one boob? How about only the nipple?

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

2006-09-21T11:45:00.000-04:00

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.

I only think I live alone

2006-09-20T14:39:00.000-04:00

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.

Technology IS your friend

2006-09-15T22:17:00.000-04:00

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.

Evolution

2006-09-08T18:29:00.000-04:00

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."

Enlightenment

2006-09-06T23:37:00.000-04:00

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.

Things even your best friend shouldn't know about you

2006-09-05T23:51:00.000-04:00

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!!!!

Babies R NOT Us

2006-08-31T16:19:00.000-04:00

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.

Gamophobia

2006-08-30T10:55:00.000-04:00

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.

Things that give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside

2006-08-29T12:06:00.000-04:00

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."

And yet, even more positive reinforcement

2006-08-25T23:43:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-25T18:30:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-08-24T19:22:00.000-04:00

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.

Say Cheese!!!

2006-08-21T00:11:00.000-04:00

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.

The Not-So-Prodigal Daughter's Return

2006-08-16T13:10:00.000-04:00

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.

Truth In Advertising

2006-08-03T19:26:00.000-04:00

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

Are you LOOKING for a fight?

2006-08-01T07:49:00.000-04:00

"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."

My Babysitting Rates Have Gone Up

2006-07-03T06:44:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-06-27T09:47:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-27T09:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-22T05:03:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-14T11:25:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-13T06:48:00.000-04:00

"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?!

2006-06-09T09:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-08T12:43:00.000-04:00

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?!

2006-06-03T08:05:00.000-04:00

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.

So, Greece does NOT suck

2006-05-15T09:42:00.000-04:00

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.....

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

2006-05-02T15:22:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-04-28T12:41:00.000-04:00

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!

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

2006-04-25T11:44:00.000-04:00

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

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

2006-04-19T15:52:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2006-04-19T11:29:00.000-04:00

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

You've GOT to be kidding

2006-04-18T11:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Passover, Just Another Joyous Occasion Built for Torture

2006-04-12T15:22:00.000-04:00

"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.

F.I.R.E.D.

2006-04-11T12:44:00.000-04:00

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.....

Just a Typical Night Out

2006-04-09T12:13:00.000-04:00

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

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

2006-04-08T00:16:00.000-04:00

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......

Alcoholism

2006-04-07T11:51:00.000-04:00

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.

Take your TPS Reports and Shove Them

2006-04-05T11:52:00.000-04:00

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.

New Depths of Desperation

2006-04-03T12:19:00.000-04:00

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.

The Padded Walls in My Apartment Are Working Out Well

2006-04-02T20:19:00.000-04:00

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.

I don't need this on a Friday afternoon

2006-03-31T16:26:00.000-05:00

Sharing is nice. Caring is nice. It's great when you sit down with your significant other, and they offer you half of their sandwich, or the last scoop of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Awww, thanks Pookie.

Even talking about past emotional trials and tribulations are nice. Helps you get closer to each other. No really. You guys broke up two years ago? Oh, what? She played with your emotions for two years? And it was one of those unhealthy, I can't let her go, even though she's really bad news, on-again, off-again relationships? I'm so sorry someone treated you so badly, that's terrible. I'm happy that you were able to get the emotional strength to finally break away.

"Yeah, but at least I got to fuck her."

Um, what?

"I fucked her."

Um, do you mean, you fucked her over because of the severe emotional trauma she put you through? Or do you mean, you fucked her, as in, you got to have sex with her?

"I fucked her. I got to have sex with her. Lots of sex. I waited a long time to fuck her, I had known her since we were 14. I consider myself totally repaid for the emotional shit she did to me."

.....Do you realize who you're talking to?

"What? I didn't say anything wrong. I'm not telling you how great it was or anything. I'm just saying it was a lot. Enough for me to feel like I got something out of it."

THIS IS WHAT IS CONSIDERED TOO MUCH INFORMATION. TOO FUCKING MUCH INFORMATION TO PROVIDE TO YOUR CURRENT GIRLFRIEND.

I cannot stress enough how this is TOO. FUCKING. MUCH.

AND, the irony of it all, is that when I politely excused myself from the conversation because I was a little upset, HE GOT MAD AT ME! MAD AT ME!!!!!

Because in his little brain, talking about the emotional trauma he went through because of her and talking about HOW HE AT LEAST GOT TO FUCK HER, FUCK HER A LOT, BECAUSE HE WAITED SINCE HE WAS 14, AND FEELS REPAID NOW is the same thing.

Apparently there is no delicate balance between what we share and what we don't. He might as well tell me she liked it from behind and that she tasted great.

There are limits. There HAVE TO BE LIMITS. SEXPLOITS are generally off-limits. Emotional mumbo-jumbo is just fine. "At least I fucked her" IS NOT FINE.

And that's from a woman who writes an anonymous and generally humiliating blog.

And People Say Attorneys Aren't Nice

2006-03-30T10:14:00.000-05:00

I have inside-outside commentary. And I don't mean indoor-outdoor....

I have to be very careful sometimes that what's going on inside, doesn't come out.

You know, for example, "Get your fucking fat moseying ass out of my way, before I clobber you over the head with my bag" - on the inside. "Excuse me" - on the outside.

Or sometimes, "Hey, what the fuck was that all about?!" doesn't always get you the response you want. Generally, I have to tone it down, "Um, I was wondering if you could maybe, uh, sort of explain what just happened? I might have missed something, (on the outside) douchebag! (on the inside)"

I know men that I have to treat with kidd gloves too sometimes. I'm actually dating one right now.

I can't explain to you the number of times I feel compelled to growl, "If you ever fucking do that again, I'll cut your nuts off and make a pretty pair of earrings out of them," but of course, that has to stay on the inside. "You know, personally, for me, from my point of view, based on what could be my totally warped perception, I wasn't very comfortable when you did that...." has to come out of my mouth instead.

That's what earns me groveling apologies the instant I've made my point. It's satisfying to get the apology, but I wonder sometimes, if just saying, "Fuck you, you Fuck!" wouldn't be equally satisfying.

On the inside, I'm all, "You total and utter ASS." On the outside, I'm all, "Ooooo, that hurt my feelings." Yawn.

Even dealing with people at work. "Are you a fucking idiot?!?! What part of 'get me the research by 10' didn't you understand?! How's that one neuron working out for you?" all has to stay on the inside. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could get it to me as soon as possible. No, I totally understand, you had tickets to a show last night. Great. Thanks. You're the best" on the outside.

"Stop checking out my ass, you disgusting perverted old man before I bring a sexual harassment suit so big, you'll be mowing my lawn to pay your mortgage" on the inside, has to be, "Was there something I could help you with?" on the outside.

It takes lots of effort and energy to keep my big mouth shut all day. It's not easy. I totally understand that I can't go around yelling at people and saying what's on my mind all the time. I'd literally end up alienating absolutely everyone I know. Not that I really like anyone I know, but I'm a people person, and you never know when someone will come in handy.

Like my dear friend told me yesterday, sometimes, you have to kiss one cheek while you slap the other, in order to get what you want. And she's my best friend in the whole wide world, (on the outside), dumb annoying bitch with the stupid advice (on the inside).

I'll be right back, someone named Nurse Ratchet is at my door....

2006-03-28T22:54:00.000-05:00

Women are crazy. We are stark raving lunatics. I'm at the head of the line. I'm certainly not about to cast aspersions without taking my fair share of the blame.

I don't know what it is, but we are nuts. From the talking and talking and talking (someone stop me) about feeeeeeeeelings, and the over-analyzation of everything from, "did you see the way she looked at me???" to "what do you think he meant by 'hi'?", I'm assuming that if pussy didn't feel so good, men would have shot us all by now. Not that men are any better, but at least men aren't crazy. They're just dumb.

If I could explain why I start crying at a particularly touching kleenex commercial, I could probably become the next expert in quantum physics.

If I obsess anymore over whether the five pounds I put on last week is the reason why the cute guy at the deli didn't flirt with me this morning, or whether I should have had the yogurt instead of the muffin, or whether the new heels I bought are sexy enough, I might just jump. I actually sometimes hear the things that come out of my mouth, and have to ask out loud whether I really just said that or not. It's amazing.

And don't even get me started on the emotional holocaust I reign on anyone in my path the week and half before my period, the week of my period and the week after my period. (If you did the math correctly, that leaves about 3.52 minutes per month that I'm relatively normal. I'm probably sleeping.) That, and the crying. The insane amounts of crying because I dropped my pen, or couldn't find my favorite scarf, or because my boyfriend asked me where I put the bottle opener. I mean really.

But I've come to embrace the fact that as a woman, I'm crazy. Men are these weird, alien, logical creatures, whereas women are emotional. I can be logical. Ok, I can pretend I'm logical. Fine. But at least I can do it. Men can't even pretend to be emotional. And if they are emotional, you know they're just a bunch of sackless Nancy-boys. The last thing I want to see, again, is a grown man cry. Actually, the last thing I want to see, is me crying over another completely innocuous commercial, or me talking about why when he does this, it makes me feeeeeel like that.....or hearing the question of whether the pants my friend is wearing make her look fat. NO, your fat ass makes you look fat. Psycho.

I'm looking for someone with no assembly required (batteries optional)

2006-03-27T17:31:00.000-05:00

There's one very important thing I've learned while dating in the past 14 years, and that is, the only way something is going to work, is if I approach it with a "take it or leave it" attitude.

Basically, what I mean is, that you can't change anyone. And I learned a long time ago to not even try.

Therefore, whenever I am faced with a situation that I don't like, or behavior that I don't like, I can either accept it, or I can walk away. If I do accept it, I have to accept it fully. I can't say it's ok, and then be a nag about it.

But if it's not ok, I will avoid having a discussion about it, and I will definitely try to avoid any kind of fight, and I will certainly not sit around talking about why it's unacceptable to me. It doesn't always work, but I try.

For example, if I'm out on a first date, and the 36 year old guy decides that he wants to smoke some pot, and asks me if I mind, I'm not going to tell him I mind. I'm just not going to see him anymore.

And you might say that that's not fair, because he asked me if I minded. But what I know is, that if I said yes, it wouldn't stop him from smoking, it would only stop him from smoking in front of me. And dating a 36 year old that still smokes pot is not something I'm looking for.

Or if I'm dating someone, and he goes out all the time with his friends, and I invariably get the drunk dial at 3 in the morning, replete with annoying avowals of love and tears, and maybe a fight he wants to pick, on a school night. Eventually, I'm going to bail.

It's ok to go out with friends; it's ok to have a few cocktails; it's ok to call your girlfriend to tell her you love her. It's not ok when these things happen every random Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday night. And I will say something like, "Hey, you think maybe you can try to call me a little earlier if you want to talk? It's hard for me to get up in the morning for work when you call at 3..." But I'll say it maximum two times, not more. And then, check please.

Or, if I'm dating someone long distance for about a year, and it's an exclusive relationship, and he decides to go away for the weekend last minute, I think I should get a phone call. I don't think I should find out about it because I happened to call him his first night away.

And I certainly shouldn't find out on Monday that the trip was comprised of a whole bunch of guys and girls away together.

Don't talk to me about trust. There's a difference between trusting someone, and just being an idiot. And actually, this doesn't even have to do with trust, it has to do with respect. If we're exclusive for a year and a trip is coming up, I'll call him, and let him know about it the minute I decide I want to go. Let him know the details, where, when, with who, all of it. If he voices any concerns, I try to put him at ease. If he's still not at ease, I'll reconsider going (unless he's being absurd).

So on the flip side, I would expect that I should at least get a phone call during the three or four hour drive it takes to get to the vacation spot. At least some sort of heads-up, "Hey, I'm going away this weekend, I'm on my way...X,Y, and Z are coming with."

But I don't like information after the fact. I'm not ok with it. I don't know why, but there's something about getting information after the fact that makes me uncomfortable.

BUT, I'm not going to discuss it. I'm not going to fight about it, I'm not going to get into the whole, "Don't you trust me? You're just being jealous. You know what, I'm not going to tell you anything anymore because you just give me a hard time..." lines. Men use those lines all the time when they've behaved badly in order to put women on the defensive. And I'm not going to put myself in that position.

Letting your girlfriend of a year know you're going away, and that you're going away with a mixed group, is not about jealousy. It's not about control. You don't need my permission. But it IS about having some respect. And maybe a little forethought.

If the situation were reversed I have a feeling he would be something close to livid. And Lucy would have some 'splainin to do.

Talking is great. Working things out is great. Letting each other know about feelings is great, if not extremely nauseating, but great. Having to train a grown man to treat me the way he would want to be treated is a waste of my time. If his mother failed at instilling that little life lesson when he was 10, my chances of success 20 years later aren't that good.

But it's extremely liberating to know that I can either take it or leave it. It takes away any feelings of helplessness; let's me understand that even though other people do things that may hurt my feelings, I ultimately control my life and my experiences. It also helps me avoid being a nag. And forces me to really understand how I feel about someone, and how far I'm willing to go in a relationship. It's all up to me. Ladies, if you haven't yet, you should try it.

Things I have done in the past four days that I am WAY TOO OLD to be doing:

2006-03-27T10:30:00.000-05:00

I am too old to hang out at a sports bar by myself after my girlfriend left to meet her date.

I am too old to suck a jello shot out of the waitress's mouth in front of a bunch of guys.

I am too old to let the waitress suck a jello shot from my mouth.

I am too fucking old to be doing jello shots.

I am too old to work up the nerve to walk across the bar to talk to the JFK Jr. look-alike, only to find out he's 26 years old, and says things like, "yo bro."

I am too old to go to sleep on my friend's couch and show up to work in the same clothes as the day before, plus one ill-fitting sweater on-loan.

I am too old to get drunk off of one glass of wine at five in the afternoon.

I am too old to be doing vodka shots at my friend's wedding.

I am too old to go traipsing around the streets of Washington DC in an evening dress with three men in tuxedos, looking for a party at two in the morning, WHEN WE WERE JUST AT A PARTY.

I am too old to dance atop furniture at various establishments.

I am too old to pass out in my strappy gold high heels with pretty flowers on them, and a full face of makeup.

I am too old to be having platonic sleep overs with an old acquaintance, just because we are too drunk to be able to function.

I am too old to be so hung over, that I almost passed out on the plane and threw up in my sister's car on the way home from the airport the day after the party.

I am too old to have only vodka, ice-cream and butter in my fridge when I get home.

Lies, I tell you. All LIES....

2006-03-23T18:38:00.000-05:00

"I like to live a simple life."
- I'm cheap.

"I'm more into staying home, watching a movie and getting some take-out."
- I'm cheap. Very cheap.

"I want a woman to love me for me, and not my money."
- I'm cheap. And insecure.

"I'd rather cook a meal for a girl than go out. Brunch can be so romantic."
- I'm cheap. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap.

"I'm looking for a nice girl."
- I'm looking for a girl whose actions I can control, because I'm cheap.

"I'm a regular kind of guy."
- I'm not taking you anywhere fancy or trendy because I'm cheap.

"I think coffee is a better first date than drinks or dinner, because you can really talk to each other without any distractions."
- I'm so cheap, I squeak.

"I don't understand why people are into brand names. It's so shallow and empty to be engrossed in that stuff."
- I'm cheap, but I'm trying to hide my cheapness behind a bullshit statement about the human condition.

"Your half comes out to $7.42."
- I'm cheap, and I'm not embarrassed to let you know. But I don't understand why I never get laid.

Reasons Why the First Date Won't Lead to a Second:

2006-03-22T13:57:00.000-05:00

He was shorter than he said he was on the phone.
He looked older than he said he did on the phone.
He played Jewish geography with me over sushi.
He has a cat.
He insisted that I stop by his place to "meet the cat."
I met the stupid cat.
He cradled the cat in his arms and baby talked to it.
I started to have doubts about his sexual orientation.
He pulled out a guitar and sang me a Billy Joel song. In his living room. A la a bad romance novel come to life.
I no longer had any doubts about his sexual orientation.
I looked around bewildered, wondering how it had come to this.

It's Quality, Not Quantity

2006-03-21T11:38:00.000-05:00

One of the most frustrating things I encounter with my family is their complete and utter incredulity that I can't seem to find someone. And they very openly and very clearly blame me for it.

I don't know how to impress upon them that its not as easy as it used to be. It just isn't. I know so many wonderful women, educated, successful, fun, interesting and really beautiful, inside and out. And we're all in the same boat.

The thing is, it's not a problem to meet people. The problem is meeting someone you can stand for longer than the period of time it takes you to finish your drink before you consider pretending a seizure just to make him go away.

One of my biggest problems is meeting someone age appropriate. (Age appropriate means he should not start a conversation by asking what school I go to, or what year I am. My year? IT'S 30!!!!! And it's about 10 years too old for YOU!! Now go home before you break curfew. Your parents must be worried sick. And stop trying to convince me you like dating older women. I don't like baby-sitting or changing diapers.)

Another problem is meeting someone who is looking for a relationship. Meeting 40 year old worldly art dealers tooling around in Bentlys and selling Picassos, who want to take me out to fancy dinners and fancy cigar bars for intimate drinks is all well and good. But they're still embroiled with their first wives, and their second wives...and their 21 year old "girlfriends." And I'm not interested in entering their little rotation of women.

And then there are the nice Jewish boys I know, the ones who are educated, successful, interesting and fun. They've got so many issues, their issues live in complexes together and share laundry facilities.

What happened to you guys? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU READ MY BLOG!!!!!! They have no idea what they want, they flitter from one girl to the next, one minute they like her, the next they don't, then again, maybe they do, but then, hey, who's over there? Well, maybe they should ask their mom what she thinks.....Like dogs chasing their tails around in circles.

All I have to say is that my grandmother would never survive the dating world today. She'd end up in a studio apartment, with an unsatisfying job and an unhealthy number of cats. Men and women don't have that symbiotic, he earns the money, she takes care of the house, relationship anymore. No one I know needs anyone else. At least, not in the traditional sense. But my family doesn't seem to realize that the elements holding their relationships together don't necessarily work anymore. It's a different playing field now.

So maybe I'll find someone. Maybe not. But I'm going to try to not stress about it. Especially when some of the women I know who want to get married to the traditional Jewish doctor-type have resorted to dating much younger men, or even ethnic men (not too many Asian Jews out there....) or even European men who live thousands of miles away, who propose using your old wedding band. Ahem. At least I have an out. I could always buy a one-way ticket to Europe, marry someone who's wonderful and never have to work another day in my life. THAT does not suck.

Past Tense:

2006-03-17T17:06:00.000-05:00

Saturday, the Neurosurgeon and I were supposed to hang out. But I hadn't heard from him for most of the day. I figured that based on the number of phone calls we had exchanged already, the number of dates we'de been on, and the comfort level we seemed to have reached really quickly, it was ok to just call him myself.

Turns out he was on a lunch date. A LUNCH DATE. WITH ANOTHER WOMAN. Of course, I don't think he actually heard my heart break, but as a doctor, he definitely heard something short circuit. The problem wasn't so much the date or that he wasn't going to see her again, but the fact that he said he liked her. (OUCH!!! - coupled with complete incredulity, that he could actually like someone after meeting me, but that's not the point -nor the good part of the story).

*N.B. - For some info on exclusivity and multiple partner dating in NYC, please refer to this post.

So, we decide to go out that night, he says he's really excited to see me. I was a little cold in the beginning, but eventually I thawed out. Because I really REALLY liked him.

We ended up going to BB Kings to hear a battle of the bands between various painfully untalented heavy metal bands - which was now the second thing he'd done to annoy me. The first being that he had the gaul to go out with another woman when he was telling me how crazy he was about me, the second being that he took me somewhere he knew I had absolutely no interest in going, but he just didn't care because that's what he wanted to do.

So, I did what any adult, independent female with an extremely active social life does when the guy she recently started dating and really likes annoys her: I proceeded to get completely, blindingly, fall off the chair, drunk.

Now, I don't remember everything that happened that night. But lucky me, the Neurosurgeon was nice enough to fill me in with the details on Sunday afternoon.

For starters, at some point in the evening, I apparently thought it would be a good idea to PROFESS MY LOVE TO HIM. I mean, I actually told the man "I love you" after knowing him for less than a month. I Love You. Love You came out of my mouth, with an "I" in front of it. He, feeling very sorry for me, put his arm around my shoulders, kissed me on the forehead, and told me that I "was going to hate myself in the morning." (Nice!)

I then felt that his response was not emotionally adequate, I became very serious, turned away from him for a full five minutes, and turned back and PROCEEDED TO GIVE HIM THE "BREAK-UP SPEECH." You know, "This is not going to work out for me. I think we would make really great friends. I wish you all the best..." Blah blah fucking blah. Excellent. But, folks it gets EVEN BETTER.

He wouldn't let me drive home, (obviously), and so I ended up spending the night at his place, and I PROCEEDED TO HAVE SEX WITH HIM. AFTER I broke up with him (and he's not even my boyfriend), AFTER professing my love to him. How's that for psychotic?

In case you missed it, let's recap:
1. Doctor goes out on date with another woman.
2. I drink inordinate amounts of straight vodka.
3. I tell him I LOVE HIM.
4. I BREAK UP with him, even though he's not my boyfriend.
5. I go home and have SEX with him.
6. I don't remember a damned thing.

We continued to date. And this time, erectile dysfunction and NOT my behavioral dysfunction ended it. It's a sad state of affairs when you're relieved by erectile dysfunction.

For the "Anonymous" Dr. David

2006-03-17T10:36:00.000-05:00

"Have you thought about going to different synagogue functions? Lots of men and their families are there...."

"Mom, leave me alone, I don't want to find the kind of guy that spends his Saturdays at Synagogue."

"Well, you can go to functions, you know, for holidays, special events. I'll come with you, we can go together. You need to find a husband. How much longer do you think you can stay single?!"

"Mom, listen to me please. And listen very very carefully. I'm not going trolling through the synagogues of Manhattan looking for a husband like a homeless person digging through garbage for food."

"Well, for god's sake, what are you going to do? Just go!"

"No. No no no no NO NO NO NO. NOOOO!"

So I'm at Synagogue last night for a party.....

Last year I was on JDate, and I received an email from a very nice, very handsome man who just moved to New York from Australia? England? I can't remember, but I do remember after talking to him on the phone, that he had a great accent, and really wanted to get together.

Since I had already been out with 98.3% of the Jewish male population in NYC, and had the neurosis to prove it, I started to adopt an "I know everything about dating" attitude.

And based on my vast experience, and hard earned knowledge, I decided that this guy isn't ready to start dating seriously, because he just moved here, and he will invariably want to play the field before he settles down. So I refused to go out with him. Because, like I just said, I know everything.

Last night, he was at the Synagogue party. He was easily the tallest man there. (Ok, not hard to achieve at a Jewish function, but seriously, he was like a head taller than everyone else.) With the bluest of blue eyes. Lean, well dressed. Handsome. Crisp white shirt, open at the collar, under a very nice suit, confident stance, charming smile.

I thought, wow, maybe I should go talk to him. He looks pretty good.

And as I moved through the crowd, watching, debating whether I should go, I notice a tall brunette standing next to him. Often. And then, is that his arm around her waist?! What?!

His FIANCEE. YES!! His fucking fiancee. That he met last year, right around the time he moved here. Jesus fucking Christ.

There's a reason I'm still single, and it might have everything to do with ME.

It's a good thing I know everything though, that should keep me warm at night......

Today's Painful, and Way Too Long Three-and-a-half Minute Conversation with my Mother

2006-03-03T16:04:00.000-05:00

1. Why didn't you invite me out to dinner with you and your sister last night?

- Because we wanted to enjoy ourselves, Mom.

2. Is your little sister actually spending nights at her new boyfriends house?

- Mom, you need to ask her these nosy, annoying questions yourself. And then, maybe after having three daughters aged 20 to 30, you might learn to deal with the answers at SOME POINT IN YOUR LIFE.

3. I just don't want her to get hurt, or make a mistake. Like SOME people.....

- Doesn't Satan get lonely without you Mom?

4. Do you remember that we're having dinner at your grandmother's house tonight? And remember to come home early. Remember your aunt and cousins are going to be there? And don't forget to try to look normal.

- I can't hear you over the blood gushing out of my ears.

They Could Probably Be More Annoying if They Tried Really, Really....REALLY Hard

2006-03-01T22:04:00.000-05:00

My uncle is throwing a black-tie Bar/Bat Mitzvah this Saturday night for my twin cousins at an extremely (and annoyingly) fancy hotel ballroom in the City.

Now, I’m not going to go into the fact that the party costs almost double the value of my apartment, because how people earn and spend their money is NONE of my business. What is my business is the torture I have to endure as a result of their expenditures.

The instant my mother, grandmother and three aunts got wind of the party, its location, the dress-code and the guest list, they entered Ludicrous Speed in being annoying.

Immediately, the badgering began, “What are you going to wear?” “How are you going to do your hair?” “When will you buy a dress?” “Do you understand that the party is BLACK TIE and you have to look elegant? Do you?!”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I have to wear a party dress.”

“No. Noooooo. Not a party dress. You have to wear an evening gown. A gown, for evening. To the floor. Do you understand?”

I looked around and over my shoulder, wondering if there were any Jerry’s Kids standing behind me they might be talking to in that tone of voice. There were talking to me like I was an underdeveloped child that needs protective headgear.

This is where I started to get annoyed. I have never ever shown up at a party dressed inappropriately. I have never experienced a wardrobe malfunction. I have never humiliated myself or my family based on my clothing.

(Disclaimer: This statement excludes all references, mentions, assertions or proclamations relating in any way to humiliation endured by me or in conjunction with the humiliation of any other individual(s) due in any form from intoxication, drunkenness, inebriation, tipsiness or resulting lewdness that involved tripping, falling, dropping things, spilling things, use of unauthorized electrical applicances, including microphones, guitars or any combination thereof which resulted in damage sustained by any article of clothing worn by me or anyone in close proximity to me at the time, including but not limited to torn hems, ripped straps, busted zippers, burn holes, broken heels, missing buttons or beading, or visible bra material, as a direct or indirect result of said intoxication, drunkenness, inebriation, tipsiness or resulting lewdness on my part.)

The fact that I bare an uncanny resemblance to Courtney Love on my way out of any given family party should have no bearing on how I look going IN.

You’d think my family would at least give me a little bit of credit. Geez.

It's All Out of Love

2006-02-28T21:20:00.000-05:00

My grandmother used to warn me before I went out on a date not to let the guy know I wore glasses or contacts, or more appropriately, that I happen to have atrocious eyesite.

Why you ask? I'll tell you. So that the guy didn't think I was defective and not want to marry me out of fear of passing my defect on to any future offspring.

Why are single Jewish women neurotic? It's not by accident.

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

2006-02-27T23:02:00.000-05:00

It's always fun when your European lover is in town and he decides that he loves you so much, that he's going to propose. Yes, it's unexpected. Yes, it's exciting. You're probably thinking, Get Out! (replete with Elaine shove).

He proposes in a half-serious, half-joking way. In his underwear. While we're lounging around on my couch watching TV and munching on food.

And since it's half-joking, half-serious, he clearly doesn't come prepared with a ring. But, in a stroke of ingenuity, he thinks, why not use a ring from my jewelry box? That'll be cute, that'll be charming, that'll make it seem whimsical and spur of the moment, on bended knee, slipping a ring on my left ring finger....

Except that it's not so cute or charming or whimsical when the ring he uses is MY OLD WEDDING BAND. Yeah. My old wedding band.

There are many rings in my jewelry box. Lots of fun, interesting cocktail rings, with bright, shiny stones. There are even a couple of rings given to me by my mother, pretty and feminine antique types. And there happens to be one little ring, one little lonesome ring that's there, because I don't know what to do with it.

And I guess since I haven't figured out what the hell to do with it, Fate (that heartless bitch-ass whore) decided that she would think of something.

Somehow the nuptials.....don't seem so promising.

Happy February 14th

2006-02-14T12:26:00.000-05:00

To all of you out there who hate Valentine's Day because it's a painful reminder of how utterly undesirable you are to members of the opposite sex, don't worry. You're not alone. There are many undesirable people just like you, and maybe you can find each other, sitting alone at Barnes and Noble, or working out at the local Y, to commiserate.

Personally, I don't think you need one particular day for this. I mean, you're alone on other days too, like yesterday, and tomorrow, and probably next week, hell who are we kidding, let's just say you'll probably be feeling this way next year too. So just get over it already. No one is sending you flowers, no matter what day it is.

So what it comes down to is that I think you should be miserable all the time. Not just today. Because really, the woman down the hall who just received a dozen red roses and a few heart shaped balloons, who is going home to a brand new white Mercedes in the garage tied up with a giant red bow from her adoring husband, gets to go home to him all the time. And he probably treats her well everyday of the year, not just on Valentine's Day.

And you're still alone. And miserable about it.

The point I'm trying to make is, that if Valentine's Day really bums you out, like really, then you should be bummed all the time. Maybe you should see if you can squeeze through the window, to jump. You can just end it all.

But if Valentine's Day doesn't make you try to slit your wrists with a butter knife, and you see it for what it is, a way for Hallmark to make money, or a day to show those you love that you love them, then I wish you a Happy Valentine's Day.

If anyone is looking for me today, I'll be alone at Star-sucks with my computer, doing some "work" and some "writing."

Well, they sure showed us

2006-02-07T11:19:00.000-05:00

Iran daily holds contest for Holocaust cartoons
Tue Feb 7, 2006 7:20 AM ET
TEHRAN (Reuters) - Iran's best-selling newspaper has launched a competition to find the best cartoon about the Holocaust in retaliation for the publication in many European countries of caricatures of the Prophet Mohammad.

Way to go guys!!!! You sure showed those Danes!!!! That's right, you go girl! You show Europe what its all about. I can't believe you're ahead in the ultimate game of "Na-na na-na poo poo." I think I can actually see your thumbs to your noses as you wiggle your fingers and stick out your tongues.

What's the matter? Hurling petrol bombs at the Danish embassy not enough? Attacking the Austrian embassy not enough? Boycotting Danish goods not enough? Setting up a "scientific congress" to research whether the Holocaust actually took place not enough? Being questioned and investigated for your "peaceful" nuclear program not enough?

I don't think anyone here has forgotten that HILARIOUS practical joke you guys pulled in that whole Iran Hostage Crisis gag at the American Embassy in Tehran. Wow, your political stratagem, so smart, so svelte, so proactive. It's really working guys. Don't listen to those naysayers, YOU don't need an image consultant. You, Iran, know what you're doing..

You guys are on a winning streak with the world. I'm impressed. Really. It's hard making an entire nation of people deserve a Darwin Award. But somehow, you YOU managed.

Hey, why don't I help you guys, I have some pretty good ideas for Holocaust cartoons....oh, but you know what, I think some of your buddies have already cornered that market....here, here, here, here and definitely here.

But I'm sure you'll prevail. The Iranians have always been known for their keen sense of humor and sharp intellect. Oh yeah, did you hear the one where six million Jews were killed in ovens and gas chambers in the 1940's by the Nazi army? Hahahahahahaaaaaaa!!!! Wow, that was a good one.

Oh yes I did, I posted THE CARTOONS

2006-02-03T22:40:00.000-05:00

This type of expression is NOT acceptable. But apparently......

.... this is just fine.

I'm not a fan of hypocrisy, especially from the creators of these images:

- Al-Yawm (Saudi Arabia), November 30, 2005

For more images published by the Arab world you can go here.

Why I Should Live Walking Distance From Work

2006-01-31T11:53:00.000-05:00

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....

2006-01-25T23:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-19T18:19:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-18T23:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-10T12:42:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-09T12:47:00.000-05:00

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.