Just a Typical Night Out

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

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

OK, so I have a girl crush. I work with her, and I secretly love her. I. Love. Her.

I was talking to a friend in his office today, and she walked in. And I acted like a fourteen year old boy whose mother just caught him sniffing thongs in the lingerie section of Bloomingdales. I started to blush and sweat a little. I even kind of laughed awkwardly a few times, and shifted my weight from foot to foot. Once I started to stutter, I realized that I had to get out of there.

There's not a man on earth that has ever made me act like that. But then again, no man I know is easily 5 foot 9 inches tall, with long, beautiful real blond hair, is a perfect size two, has clear alabaster skin and green eyes, and is FRENCH. For god's sake, my Girl Crush is FRENCH. YES!!!!! She has a FRENCH accent. I KNOW!!!!! You love her TOO!!!!!

Sigh. She's so ahhmayzing. And, to top it off, she's NICE. Sooo nice. And I don't mean, she's nice for a French person nice. I mean she's nice, Mother Teresa would be like, wow, I should be that nice, nice.

If I were a lesser woman, I would be petty and jealous. But I recognize greatness when it walks into the office in awesome slim tailored slacks, with beautiful high heels, and a crisp, fitted blouse, surrounded by a halo of blond locks, framing a perfect MAKEUP-LESS face.

I just want to sit around and gaze at her adoringly. That might not fly with the partners. But then again, maybe it would......

Alcoholism

One lemon drop shot, check.

Two glasses of straight vodka, check.

Three bottles of hot sake, check.

Crawl into work at 11, check.

Take a nap at my desk to prepare for tonight's festivities, check.

Take your TPS Reports and Shove Them

Because I work with a bunch of lawyers who are neurotic (shocker) middle aged men, I invariably get in the middle of their ugly pissing matches. Golden showers? Not my gig people.

One partner gives me a file, and sends me to another partner to review the work product. The second partner gets offended that I'm coming to him to review work for a file that's not his. And he yells at me. "He sent you to me?! To review this??? Why?"

Well, maybe because he's basically a turnip with a pulse, and has the mental capacity of a turnip without a pulse. I don't know, that's just conjecture on my part.

And the turnip only communicates in cryptic, one word emails. He won't answer the phone for some insane reason. Sometimes, he just forgoes using actual words, and decides to only use punctuation.

"Subject: XYZ, Corp.
Text: ????"

I don't know what that means. Do you know what that means? I'm sure I can sit around and try to guess, but why not just send a coherent email? Why? Why does it have to be so weird?

And then, I'll run around the firm trying to find him, because he WON'T ANSWER THE PHONE, and discover that he took a nice mid-morning jaunt to the gym and is now in a conference room, having a leisurely lunch with a buddy.

And the second partner, who has affectionately been dubbed Eyore by his colleagues, will put himself in an early grave, with the amount of deep sighs, hair grabbing, temple rubbing and eye-rolling he does. Dude, we do transactional work. There are no court deadlines. No one is waiting for a stay on his death sentence at midnight here. CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

Nothing is the end of the world. But for him, everything is the end of the world. And everyone is a total idiot for not understanding that sentiment. I am obviously one of those idiots.

And then, there's the very nice older attorney, who is really past his prime, and should be spending his days at his lovely villa in the French Riviera. Instead, he's here, giving me angst, and sending me on wild goose chases, because he doesn't quite get the issues anymore, but insists that he's right. Until he's wrong.

Needles to say, communication is, how shall I put this delicately, well, it's at high volume. And I so badly want to tell them, "HEY, I'm not your wife, and I'm not your errant daughter smoking cigarets in the garage. YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT."

But I can't. Because I'm a girl. And girls can't yell back at their middle aged bosses. Men my age can yell back, because then they're viewed as passionate and devoted. I'll be looked at like a harridan, like some emotional lunatic.

As if my emotional lunacy has anything to do with my job. Puh-leeze. The line forms to the left gentlemen, right there, behind my mother and ex-husband.

New Depths of Desperation

My mother, like any typical Jewish mother, is extremely concerned about my status as a single 30 year old.

Since I'm not moving fast enough at getting off the fast track to sealing my inevitable fate of becoming a horrible, childless spinster, my mother has now taken it upon herself to save me from myself.

In order to get me married off to the first available and willing candidate (which in her mind, are the only prerequisites necessary for entering the sacred bonds of marriage), she has now resorted to actually picking up men for me.

And then calling me, with an unlikely story of how she happened to meet him on her way out of her office. And really, they were talking about business, before it even crossed her mind to bring me up. And the only real reason she did bring me up, was because this complete and utter stranger, this very "polite," "handsome, ok, maybe not handsome, but very good looking, well, good looking, no, he's ok I think," "divorced" (what a coincidence), half-Italian, half-Jewish, Brooklyn-residing 32 year old standing next to his BMW, just happened to ask my mother, whether she knew any nice girls for him, as all single 32 year old men are prone to do when they meet a 50 year old woman in a parking lot.

When did it become de rigeur to pick up strangers in parking lots for your daughter? Why is that ok? Don't most parents take the, "Hey, you need to prove yourself worthy of my child" stance? Not the, "For Sale: 1 female, slightly used, healthy, 30yo, good teeth, child bearing hips. All inquiries considered."

The only thing I'm grateful for, is at least she didn't give out my number and took his instead. She used to give my number out freely, because "it's the man's job to call." What she didn't understand was that it shouldn't be any and every man.

But now, she won't relent. "Did you call him? Just call him. Why don't you call him?"

Because, if I call him, then I have to go out with him, then I have to date him, then I have to marry him, then I have to have children with him, then I have to grow old and die with him. There's no end to her harassment, and I know she won't stop with the pushing and the questions, and I just don't want to open the door to that kind of torture.

She doesn't understand that there have to be boundaries. The next boundary I'm setting up? A moat full of alligators and flesh eating piranhas. Oh, but that won't work. She'll just fly over it on her broom. At least the flying monkeys will give me a heads up that she's on her way.

The Padded Walls in My Apartment Are Working Out Well

I brought a witness. Since no one believed me, I needed someone who could testify, if necessary, to the veracity of my story.

Because if you’re going to get arrested for murdering your family, and you need to use an insanity defense, someone has to be there to testify that I suffered severe emotional abuse which ultimately led to my showing up to Family Night Friday’s with an Uzi.

When we left, she asked, “Are they for real? Is it always like that?”

And I told her that actually, since there were less of them in attendance this week, it wasn’t as bad as usual.

This weeks topic: nose jobs. More specifically, my apparent dire need of one, and unfathomable refusal in accepting the fact that I “have a problem.”

As my girlfriend put it, it appears that my family is extremely offended by my nose. My nose must have done something terrible to them. Because all night, they were talking to me as if I was a small idiotic child who was unnecessarily afraid of jumping from the baby diving board into the shallow end of the pool.

I’m not sure what they think will happen if I get a nose job. I’m not sure why they think that I would want to pay $10,000 for a nose job. I’m not sure why if my mother had one, or various people we know have had one, that means I should have one.

I’ve spoken to some friends who are plastic surgeons. And from their perspective, they told me that although a doctor is pretty much willing to do any kind of surgery you want, I’m really not in dire need of a nose job the way my family seems to be pushing it. They just don’t like the fact that I’m ok with myself I guess.

Maybe that’s why my aunt once recommended that I get cheek-bone implants. Or why everyone is always telling me to go grow my nails and get a manicure and pedicure. Or why my grandmother keeps telling me I’m too skinny, while my aunts tell me I lost weight, or gained weight, or maintained my weight well. Or why my uncle’s wife recommended that I tattoo my eyes to make it look like I’m always wearing eye liner. Or why the women in my family constantly tell me to cut my hair to my shoulders (with the males in the background vehemently shaking their heads no). Or why the nose job conversation is so frequent.

I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t get married without a nose job. Or get a job. Or somehow function in society without people shrieking in fear and revulsion when they see me. Let’s be serious, until there’s an angry mob outside my apartment with torches looking to run me out of town, I’m going to believe that I look fine.

But people, if you have daughters, please, no matter what, try to make them feel good about themselves. Be nurturing, be loving. Tell them they’re wonderful. Because Family Night Friday’s shouldn’t be marred by the staccato sounds of an Uzi going off. Ruins the whole vibe. And then no one gets to enjoy Grandma’s famous home made chocolate cake.

I don't need this on a Friday afternoon

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

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....

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)

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:

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....

"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:

• 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

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:

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

"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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Day in the Life....

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

The Circle of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Abby's Got Nothin' on Me

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

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

Half an hour later, this IM conversation occurs:

I was just on the Victoria's Secret website.

Thank goodness.

Yeah, they have some really cute bathing suits.

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

But I don't speak Italian.

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

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

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

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

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

Honesty is NOT Always the Best Policy

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't look bloated to me."

"I've never paid for sex."

"You are my type."

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

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

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

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

And we will return the favor.

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

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

"I've never had a threesome."

"Yes, I came."

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

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

"I really enjoy swallowing."

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

"I only masturbate to you."

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

"I love your mother."

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

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

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

This does not bode well for the rest of us.

They Moved My Office

I've been moved to Death Row.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Response to the "War" on Christmas

Dear You:
From me ("the wishor") to you ("the wishee"), please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, politically correct, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

We wish you a financially successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting you are bound by these terms that: This greeting is subject to further clarification or withdrawal.
1.This greeting is freely transferable provided that no alteration shall be made to the original greeting and that the proprietary rights of the wishor are acknowledged.
2.This greeting implies no promise by the wishor to actually implement the inferences contained in this correspondence.
3.This greeting may not be enforceable in certain jurisdictions and/or the restrictions herein may not be binding upon certain wishees in certain geographical locations.
4.This greeting is warranted to perform as reasonably as may be expected within the usual application of good tidings, for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first.
5.The wishor warrants this greeting only for the limited replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wishor.

Holiday Letter

To the Striking New York City MTA Workers,

Get your sorry, lawbreaking, fucking asses to work. NOW!!!!!! Or I'll shove coal up all of your noses on Christmas.

May your Christmas trees catch on fire and your presents melt for your part in ruining so many others' season, including tourists who may be here on a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

At first, I was in favor of a compromise, but now, I hope you get nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. And wait until you go back to work and see how people will treat you.

If I see one more elderly blind man attempting to walk from the Bronx to his job in Midtown Manhattan, in twenty degrees, I will personally strap on a dildo and make you cry for your mommies.

Happy Holidays.
My Life is God's Comic Strip

If I Was in Charge of Pushing the Secret Red Button....

Um, so the new Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has said some (utterly insane) inflammatory things lately. His comments about relocating Israel to (Mars) Europe and how the Holocaust was a myth have caused some (people to think to he's a blithering idiot) concern.

But now, NOW, he has gone too far. He has decreed that the poor citizenry of Iran (that voted him into power) can no longer listen to Western music, to the ballads of George Michael, Eric Clapton, and even Kenny G. (*gasp*).

I think the population of Iran (being the pack of psychotic, religious, terrorist supporting zealots) doesn't deserve to listen to the likes of George Michael and Eric Clapton. Western music is too good for them. They DO deserve to listen to Kenny G. though. Actually, Kenny G. should be blasted at the highest frequency man can tolerate before his head explodes off his neck like the Aak-Aak-Aaking aliens on Mars Attacks. (It might actually be ok if their heads exploded off their necks now that I think about it.) Kenny G. should be played on every radio station and every television channel, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, nonstop.

The Iranian people deserve to listen to Kenny G. They deserve it because they're a bunch of hypocrites that wear Parisian couture micro-mini's under their long black cloaks, and attend mixed sex parties where the alcohol flows like the waters of Niagara Falls and the drugs and sex are rampant among the young. I know this because I have friends who go to Iran, and come back boasting about how much fun it is, how great the skiing is, and how hot the girls are... (and also because I'm half Iranian - but 100% Jewish).

Yet it's a country that votes an imbecile into office, and the majority of the population, under 30, complains that the Theocracy (that they help keep in power) is not the regime they want to live under.

I say we help the Iranians's fight for their right to listen to Kenny G. I mean, they fought 27 years ago to overthrow a government they hated and installed a government they claim they really really really hate (even though they don't do anything about it and actually help perpetuate their misery) by electing an inexperienced buffoon who says things that are DUMBER THAN THE THINGS THAT COME OUT OF PRESIDENT BUSH'S MOUTH. IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE. So at the very least, they should be allowed to enjoy the sweet sweet tunes of Kenny G.

The One Year Anniversary of My 29th Birthday

Today I am 30, and a dear friend sent me this:

As a senior member of Thirtyhood, I proudly welcome you as a new member to our exclusive club. Sandwiched between Twentyhood and Fortyhood, Thirtyhood holds its own in the battle of the hoods. It is that time when you truly come to embrace adulthood, and let go of childhood once and for all. It is that special time when the realization sets in that you are not a kid any more (at least not a crazy, irresponsible twenty-year-old). Soon you will begin to take on new responsibilities, slowly start to lose touch with the latest trends, and wonder how those kids can listen to whatever that stuff is that they play on the radio these days. Yes, let's face, the second after you turn 30, you become closer to 40 than 20. With that comes an attitude adjustment. And therein lies the beauty of Thirtyhood - while it's not quite as good as Twentyhood, it's still better than Fortyhood. A semi-mature hood. Happy birthday.

Terms of Art

Buyer's Remorse: When someone gives you their phone number or sets up a date and then doesn't answer calls or breaks the date. They regret ever laying eyes on you and wonder what the hell they were thinking.

We're Just Friends: A term of art used by men and women (mostly men) describing someone they used to date but no longer date but would like to continue sleeping with but cannot tell that to the person they are currently sleeping with and therefore need to keep the former paramour around "just in case" while at the same time attempting to make the current paramour feel secure on an illusory level. See also "Recycling."

Recycling: When former members of a couple have sex after the relationship has terminated. The prelude to Recycling is "We're Just Friends."

Friends With Benefits: a situation where a man and woman claim to be "friends" when in reality one of them is in love with the other, but since one member of the friendship doesn't want to get into a relationship, the one in love, in desperation to have whatever contact they can with their love, will agree to sleep with them with no strings attached, even though deep down inside, they miserably yearn for love they have no chance of getting because they've already given up all dignity with this ridiculous farce.

Fuck Buddies: See "Friends With Benefits."

I Just Got Out of a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man physically and/or morally repugnant and does not want to go out with him.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I Need to Concentrate on My Career: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man so physically and/or morally repugnant that she would rather work as a diver at a sewage depot than go out with the man she is talking to.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I'm Not Ready for a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a blatant lie straight from the Gates of Hell told by a woman who so desperately wants to get away from the man she's talking to that she'll say just about anything, no matter how utterly preposterous she sounds.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

Just because my number is on the bathroom wall, doesn't mean you should actually use it

Avoidance is the number one rejection tool used in New York. That, and prevarication.

Gentlemen, if you find yourselves in a social situation and meet a woman who is very clearly drinking and/or utterly out of her mind drunk, please understand that there are a number of factors contributing to why she is talking to you, and you being a stud is probably not one of them - contrary to what your ego is telling you. If she gives you her number, that doesn't mean she definitely wants to see you again. It could just mean that she's really drunk, and in order to get you to go away, she'll give you her number in deference to your considerable size and the fact that her friends, those good-for-nothing non-cockblocking when you need them fuckwads, have disappeared for the time being.

The number one factor clouding her ability to have coherent thought and/or judgment is alcohol. NEVER trust a woman who has been drinking. Especially if you are a decent type of guy looking for something more than a one night stand. (If you like her and want to take it further, get her number, and talk to her during daylight, sober hours and gauge her reaction to you then.)

The second factor, directly related to the alcohol, is her horniness level. Sometimes, women who have been drinking become a bit more randy and free with their affections, and are looking for someone to satiate their temporary lust. Fooling around with you in a dark corner of a bar or club does not mean she wants to see you again, and it doesn't mean she necessarily wants to go home with you. ( If she does, good for you.) Otherwise, telling her that you're going to drop her at the train station, when in reality you told the cab driver to go to your apartment IS NOT THE PROPER WAY TO SEDUCE HER. SHE SHOULD NOT BE SCREAMING AT THE CAB DRIVER BECAUSE YOU ARE 45 BLOCKS PAST THE LOCATION YOU TOLD HER YOU WOULD TAKE HER. Getting laid in New York should not involve kidnaping. Really.

And so, if you take her number after you've met her and call her, please do not be surprised if she rejects you. Women, like men, do and say a lot of things they don't mean when they're drinking heavily.

If you call her office, THREE TIMES in SEVEN MINUTES, and then her cell phone, and she doesn't pick up, and you don't leave a message, she's probably looking at her caller ID, surrounded by her friends in the office, laughing at you.

If she breaks the date you made with her, and comes up with a lame excuse, she probably doesn't want to see you and is trying to let you down gently.

If she hems and haws when you ask about her availability to reschedule, she probably doesn't want to see you but doesn't want to actually have to tell you.

If she says she'll send you an email with her schedule and never does, that means she's NOT AVAILABLE TO SEE YOU. EVER.

If you persist in calling her and emailing her even though you get no response, please do not be surprised if she changes her number or a restraining order is taken against you.

Avoidance is what we do when we don't have the balls to tell you we're just not interested. And we expect that you'll get the hint, and have some pride, and STOP CALLING. FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Conversations of Yore

So how was your holiday? Did you enjoy Christmas?

I don't celebrate Christmas, I'm Jewish.

What do you mean?

I mean I'm Jewish. We don't believe in Jesus.

Oh really? So who do you guys worship?

Barbara Streisand.

Do you know what it's like to ride the New York City subway during morning rush hour? Do you?! Huh? HUH?!?! I didn't think so.

Well, let me enlighten you. About 100 people shuffle like cattle into a car and stand silently, making sure no unnecessary body or eye contact occurs.

People either read their papers, listen to their iPods, or try not to fall asleep standing up. The ONLY noise is the occasional rustle of paper as someone turns a page of the Times or the ding of the doors as they open and close at a stop.

So you can imagine my shock, my surprise, my utter astonishment when the woman standing next to me had the temerity, the audacity, the...the....CHUTZPAH! to actually start whistling in the Sacred Silence of the morning commute. Whistling a happy little ditty, with rhythm! And a decipherable tune!!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!!? I looked around, stunned, expecting everything to turn black and white and freeze while a man in the corner of the car looks into a camera and says, "MLIGCS doesn't realize it yet, but she has just entered....the Twilight Zone...." doodoo, doodoo....doodoo, doodoo......

I wanted to punch her in the fucking mouth. What are you, a miscreant Dwarf? Does this look like the train to Disney Land?!?! We do not whistle while we work. We DO NOT WHISTLE ON OUR WAY TO WORK. WE DO NOT WHISTLE IN THE SACRED SILENCE. The Silence, it is Sacred. To be Revered and Respected. We do not defile its sanctity with happy little tunes, with little ditties of joy and joie de vivre. There is NO JOIE DE VIVRE ON THE MORNING COMMUTE. There is only the Sacredness of the Silence. Consider yourself warned.

And My Last Name Sounds NOTHING Like Griswald

When one goes to Europe to see one's European lover, one takes certain steps to make sure one is well prepared for the experience. These steps include anything and everything from shopping for appropriate bags, shoes, and clothes (euphemism for buying as much lingerie as you can pack without Customs wondering whether you're a prostitute), to taking beauty steps that begin weeks in advance, like dieting down to a size two, facials, deep hair conditioning treatments, and certainly, lets not forget the wonderful and fulfilling nether-region laser hair removal experience.

This is all done because one pictures oneself walking through quaint cobblestone streets full of fashionistas, with their cool, crisp European look, sipping coffee in a trendy cafe, going site seeing at marvels of history, partying in amazing clubs full of models until the wee hours of the morning, and dining on delicious and exotic fare in restaurants where everyone greets each other with double-cheeked air kisses.

One does not anticipate that one's lover will call her on the day of her departure to inform her, after she's already divested herself of her luggage in her baby sister's car the prior evening in order to work half a day and then run to the airport, that the temperature will actually drop 15 to 20 degrees lower than what he told her while she was packing lightweight spring and fall clothes.

One does not anticipate that on one's second day, after spending one's first evening meeting one's European lover's brother, cousins, closest friends and drinking approximately half a bottle of whiskey and dancing on furniture, that one would get so violently ill, that one was actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that it would rain, RAIN, for seven of the nine days one was there.

One does not anticipate when one's European lover tells her that he got tickets to a great soccer game in a famous stadium, that not only would the team lose in the last seconds of the game, but that the rain would turn into a monsoon, soaking one's four layers all the way through to her bones and again making her actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that the European lover's mother would get ill and have to be hospitalized, and one's European lover would have to spend two days running back and forth between the hospital and his parent's house while one sat in the European lover's apartment waiting for him. (Of course, one DOES correctly anticipate that the minute one returns home, the European lover's mother also miraculously recovers and returns home......)

One does not anticipate that the food, purported to be oh-so-finger-lickin-good, would actually not cooperate with one's digestive system thereby making eating a very dangerous activity.

One does not anticipate that the boiler runs out of hot water, just before one is finished rinsing the conditioner out of one's hair. EVERY TIME ONE SHOWERS.

But then again, one also does not anticipate the amounts of sex one can have when one is trapped in an apartment with a hot blooded European lover because of the inclement weather.

And that's when one realizes that Europeans really do know how to live.

Working for Satan

Okay, it's not bad enough that associates walk around pushing their I.V. drips of coffee all day, coming in various, single-serve, flavors like "OK, I'm Awake Now," "Good Morning! How Can I Be Your Slave Today?" and "HiI'mReadyToGetToWorkRighNow, YayILoveBeingALawyerFor
TheEvilEmpire, WooHooGoLegalResearch," but today, I've seen the end as I know it.

A new vending machine was just installed on my floor. And along with dispensing the usual sundry items such as Coke, Sprite, and Snapple, the machine actually vends RED BULL. Yes, you read that right. My firm has taken it upon itself to provide its employees with the caffeine equivalent of crack. Because sometimes you need an extra little kick, to work past your usual 9 p.m.

I'm going to buy a bottle of Kettle One, and keep it in my desk. If I'm working after 9, I'm not ordering a Red Bull, I'm ordering a Red Bull vodka, and maybe having a party on the head partner's couch with the hot maintenance guy.

Fuck Sandra Day O'Connor, I Want to be Betty Crocker

That's it. Someone give me the check. I'm officially TIRED of working and have decided that I want to be a rich housewife. I really do. No joke.

I've been working since I was 14. Everything from a factory line (yes, I wore a hair net. Oh sod-off, I needed the money) to busing tables, waitressing, hostessing, telemarketing, receptionist, real estate agent, working in a law library and working in a collection agency, all before I even graduated from college.

And now, NOW, I'm a lawyer. Um, no thanks. People say, "What the hell is the matter with you? You have a great job, make lots of money, you have a degree, totally self-sufficient, and you're bitching?" The answer to that, dear readers, is YES. YES, I'm bitching.

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but just about ANYONE can become a lawyer. I actually saw an orangutan in court last week making oral argument.

And, I don't want to account for every six minutes of my day anymore, because that's what lawyers have to do. We bill our time in 1/10 increments of an hour. All day. Until we reach a minimum of 8 hours. Please, even the orangutan hates that.

Yes I'm ready to give up working with Mr. Keeps Calling Me To His Office For No Reason Other Than To Check Out My Ass In My Pencil Skirt As I Walk Out Even Though He Could Have Just Called Me Or Emailed Me What He Wanted To Say But Instead Decided To Make Me Go To Him Because He's a Perv Partner With An Ego Problem And A Small Penis Who Is Eating Away At My Six Minute Intervals of Billing Time To Have Tug-Vault Material For When He Has To Bang His Fat, Pampered Wife In The Ass Tonight.

I want someone else to worry about the mortgage payments. I'll worry about the cooking and cleaning. I want to wake up in the morning, make a cup of coffee, watch the news and read the paper. In an ugly bathrobe. Ok, the bathrobe doesn't have to be ugly, but really, I'm not picky. Maybe take Italian lessons, read some books that don't use words like, heretofore, aforementioned, party of the first part and party of the second part, and party of the part that makes me want to kill all the parties involved.

I know the feminists will be all, "women's rights," and "equal pay for equal work" and "hey someone give me a lighter so I can burn this bra" (you're not burning my $40 Victoria's Secret bra, bitch), but I don't care. I'm tired of working like a man.

So yeah, I'm ready to give up the glam life of 14 hour days, crowded subways, miserable people, paper pushing, and "fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, that's six minutes, phew," for the exciting world of being a housewife. Or even a waitress on some island. I'll wear flip-flops and serve drinks from a hut all day. I don't care. As long as I don't have to trudge to the office. Who's in? First round is on me.

Things That Make Me Wish I Was Blind

To the young, pretty woman on the subway this morning wearing the pastel yellow knee length wool coat, with the baby pink button-down blouse, light grey trousers, black (square toe?!) shoes, brown leather bag with brown, orange and (matching) pastel yellow plaid wool accent:

I know what you're trying to do, you thought, "Hey, if I wear this atrocious pastel yellow coat, people will notice me, especially in the sallow, blinking lights on the subway. And Prince Charming will be able to pick me out of a crowd, because I'll look so pretty and innocent in pink, and yellow, and light grey, and black and brown and orange. They'll never know the voices told me to wear this, I'll get all the credit...." Um, NO, it's not Easter, put the pastel down and step away from it with your hands up.

Just in case you didn't realize that you're in NEW YORK, in the middle of NOVEMBER, the weather for today, as anyone in even a vegetative state can tell by.....locking into satellite? Nooooo. Calling the national weather bureau? Hhhmm, noooo. Oh yeah, by LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW, is overcast and RAINY, at a cool 55 (you might need the news for that one...).

Bright mismatched pastel colors are inappropriate today. They are actually inappropriate ANY day on ANYONE who can dress themselves and does not suffer from a dire case of color blindness and deranged insanity.

Please, take that yellow coat back to whence it came, (if you can get back into the Gates of Hell) and give the salesgirl that lied to you and told you it looked great on you, a sound thrashing. You might even threaten to bury her in it if she ever sells another one. Just for good measure. God's speed.

No Pain, No Gain

Short of having a sexually transmitted disease or some kind of crazy, rub-fest sex, BLISTERS should NOT appear "down there".....unless of course, you're me, and you're getting nether-region-laser hair removal.

I have only one word to describe the experience: Holy Mother of God OUCH!!!!! Yaowzers! It hurt in ways I couldn't belieeeeeve. AND, they even applied a numbing cream, which numbed areas that I prefer to have feeling, but DIDN'T numb the crucial areas I would have really appreciated.

And the best BEST part, is that my dermatologist is a fresh-faced, sweet, Jewish doctor who looks like he's 23 (clearly he's not....but seriously, he's so young). Who's RELIGIOUS. And wears a YARMULKA. If I wasn't sure I was already going to hell (going to hell is almost redundant at this point), I'd be worried that sitting spread eagle getting cosmetic work done "down there" by a young, religious Jewish doctor would guarantee me a spot. If my mother ever found out, I have a feeling I'd be arriving at my hot-climate destination just a wee bit earlier than originally scheduled.

But, I'm fine now. The blisters are gone. And, so is the hair. The laser works, oh yes it does. And I'm going back in a month and a half, to do it again. And again, and again. The results are worth it. I'll take 15 minutes of excruciating pain once every couple of months, if, at the end of the recommended four or five treatments, I'll never have to go back AND I'll never have to flash my waxing lady.

I'll be posting before-and-after pictures to document the progress. No. Not really.

Mini-Me, Stop Humping the Laser!

Laser hair removal is something that is making me very excited. I have an appointment for Friday morning, and I'll be laser-ing an area that might make my waxing lady a thing of the past. At the very least, it will change the nature of our relationship to something a lot less intimate. This of course, is just in time for my trip to Europe next week, to see my European lovah.

I figure, if I'm willing to put my ankle behind my ear for a woman to put hot wax on my nether-regions, flashing a board-certified dermatologist isn't any worse. I mean, I've flashed my fair share of doctors in New York, at least this time, I might actually benefit from it.

I told my girlfriends I was going on Friday, and they're all jealous. The only thing I have to decide is what I want to leave behind, because I'm not sure if 12 year-old bare is the way to go. I was thinking maybe my first initial, or an arrow pointing down. I heard that if you have nothing left down there, guys consider you to be a professional. I'm certainly no professional, but I wonder if I really want to bother with the landing strip, or the stamp-sized square. I mean, fashion comes and goes, who's to say these things will last.

Fifteen years ago, it was ok to be au-naturale down there, look at porn movies. (I understand that some grooming is always necessary, but not like today's standards). In the past few years, I've found that anything down there is considered unacceptable.

If current trends persist, and men continue to react with total aversion to hair on a woman's body, pretty soon, we won't even have eyebrows anymore. But that's what the laser is for.

I have a feeling a really kinky man invented the laser hair removal machine. And may god bless him.