I'm on a NEED TO KNOW Basis, People!!!

*ring*ring*

Hi Mom. What's up?

Nothing, just called to say hello. See how you are.

I'm fine. Anything new in the last nine minutes since I've talked to you?

No, nothing new, I just forgot to tell you that I saw your ex the other day. Out with his mom of course.

....Really?

Yes, but he looked terrible. I mean, really bad. He lost a lot of weight, and he was wearing this tight sweater that showed off all of these muscles. He looked gay, like one of those metrosexuals. Just terrible. Yuck.

(Slight pause) Let me get this straight. You called to tell me that he lost all the weight he gained after we got married and now his muscles are bulging out of his clothes? You called to tell me he looks like the well maintained men that take care of their appearance to the point where they look as good as gay men? You actually called to TELL ME THIS?!?!

*....*

Okay Mom, I'm going to get off the phone now. And I'm going to call the phone company to change my number so that you can NEVER CALL ME AGAIN.

What Lawyers Really Do

So one of our new clients happens to have a crush on the Ambassador to Evil. She's a matrimonial client, meaning, she's getting a divorce. She met the Ambassador because they share the same trainer. She's one of those wealthy women, manicured, coiffed, with, um, how shall I put this delicately.....some enhancements done to certain body parts. She's also Middle Eastern, like me. The Ambassador is extremely successful in his career and is a devoted family man. He is probably the most handsome attorney at this firm with a terrifyingly sharp wit. He is affable, good natured and really afraid of what I might say or do next to either torture him or violate firm policy.

Her flirting makes him uncomfortable, mainly because he knows that the beatings she claims to have suffered at the hands of her husband are nothing compared to the beat down she would get from Mrs. Ambassador. Clearly a woman to be reckoned with.

I was showing the new client out of the firm after a meeting when she asked whether the Ambassador was in so she could say hi. Yeah, say hi. Of course, I took her straight to his office, because any discomfort he feels is clearly pure entertainment for me.

The minute he came into view, her entire demeanor changed into that of a sixteen year old girl talking to the high school quarterback. I think she even twirled her hair around a finger. She leaned into his door post, sing-songed hello in her sexy Middle Eastern accent, how are you, just stopped by to say hi, to him. And he looked over her head at me, his eyes boring laser beams into my head because he knew I brought her over for my own entertainment. He turned red, answered her politely, but in a very curt, business-like manner and we left.

I came back to his office, and he stood there, shaking his head.

"What's the matter my little chickpea?" I asked him in my best Middle Eastern accent.
"Are you sad to see your little pita leave?"

I then draped myself around his door post, "Hello Ambassador, I just stopped by to say hello. Do you want to taste my babaganoosh? It's the best in town."

"GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!!"

I love my job.

Come Here

Okay, so I'm a bitch. Well, only sort of. You see, he had a bottle of white already chilled in the fridge depending on whether I wanted red or white. And he bought a few different types of cheese, including something spicy, because I told him I like spicy food. And he even got fruit (fruit!), and crackers, and fancy bread. Oh, and olives, yummy Greek olives. And he was ready on time. And even though rain was predicted, the weather was idyllic. It was perfect, fluffy white clouds, sun, warm air, no humidity. Just perfect. I've never thrown a football, but we brought it anyway, because I'm a fast learner (and my clumsiness will only endear me to him).

After three-quarters of the bottle, some cheese, some laughing, and some football tossing (which I'm pretty good at apparently), we were lazing about on the blanket, teasing each other about something. He was leaning back on his elbows, with his knees up, and I was casually leaning on one of his knees.

And then he said "Come here." And I froze. Because now he wanted to kiss me, but he wanted me to physically move my body, my head, and my lips towards his for our first kiss. And I couldn't. So I made some dumb joke about "not in front of the kids" meaning the ones on the blanket 10 feet away from us, blushed furiously, and told him I'm uncomfortable with public displays of affection.

See, I hate the "come here" for a first kiss. I was on the fence with the guy, not sure if I was attracted to him or not. But the minute I heard those words, I jumped off that fence to the opposite side of where he was. The "come here" puts the power in my hands, and gives me time to think before acting. If I'm on the fence and I have to think about whether to kiss a guy or not, then I'm just not going to kiss him. And painful awkwardness ensues. The "come here" forces me to be the physical aggressor, and although I have a big mouth and a pretty healthy confidence level, I'm not comfortable doing that initially. Most women aren't. Unless the chemistry is palpable (and it rarely is) then I'm not doing the kissing.

I almost said, "No, you want to kiss me. YOU come here." It's like when someone calls your house and asks "who is this?" without identifying themselves. "Um, well, you're calling my house, who are you?"

I think that if a man wants to kiss a woman for the first time, he should just kiss her. He should maneuver himself in such a way that he can cradle her face in his hands and lean in for a kiss. He shouldn't ask for permission (for the love of god, just kill yourself if you have to ask for permission) and he shouldn't be directing her to do anything either, including "come here."

I'm not a romantic, I'm really not. The number of times I've burst out laughing while some idiot was professing poetic images of his feelings are many; I have no qualms about telling a guy to get a hold of himself if he gets mushy too early. And I'm not looking for the Eiffel Tower and fireworks as a backdrop to a first kiss, but even jaded girls like me would like a guy who at least takes the first step, who makes the move to initiate physical intimacy. And the move does not include verbal directions.

Next!

Match.hell Statistics After Two Weeks

291 emails.
272 winks.
4271 profile views.
One bad date.
One so-so date.

And the two most ridiculous emails I've received so far (because I can't decide which is worse) and it just makes me mad to have to read this shit:

Subject: Hi, .. Oh yes, indeed ...
Wednesday, May 18th, 2005
Knock, Knock, Knock, ..
Hi & Good Afternoon _____ny75,
To You in New York ...
From the heartlands of the Cotswolds, in Gloucestershire, England ...
Lots of Smiles ...
I have Read Your Profile ...
With
Lots of Smiles ...
I'll start with an Introduction ..
Name ...
Alexander-Marc ...
Lots of Smiles ...
A'bientot
Alexander
Ps
Profile & Photograph(s) to follow ...

Subject: if u say yes
I will say yes. allright so what I am in India but it is still existing on the same planet and we are just fasr by day and night. if I am the day you are my night and if I am night you are my night.difference of day and night can be great
---------------------------------------------------------
What the fuck is this?! Is everybody on earth crazy or is it just me? Is there some secret plan to make me crazy? Go sell crazy somewhere else. I'm all stocked up.

The Art of Lying

A false statement deliberately presented as being true, a falsehood; something meant to deceive or give a wrong impression: LIE.

A false statement deliberately presented as being true, a falsehood; something meant to deceive or give a wrong impression while speaking to one's meddlesome, overbearing Jewish relatives: SELF PRESERVATION.

I'm attempting to teach my dear, naive little sister how to lie to my mother and grandmother, and pretty much any crazy relative we might have. Yes, this will take awhile.

She met a boy that my family heartily approves of. He's good on paper and my family would sell any one of us to a guy that's good on paper for a couple of goats and some jasmine if they could. (As Middle Eastern Jews, we clearly have different priorities).

And now, the endless questions and prying have begun. "So, did he call?" "When did he call?" "What did he say when he called?" "What did you say when he called?" "Does he want to see you?" "When does he want to see you?" (I think you get the drift).

And my darling little widgeon of a sister all doe-eyed, trustingly answers all of their questions, thinking they're trying to help her. But she doesn't know they're actually looking at her like the wolf looks at Bugs Bunny when he wants to eat him, with a big red apple stuffed in her mouth and miniature chef hats on her legs. They want to get her married off as soon as humanly and legally possible.

So I of course feel compelled to run interference. Because I'm not going to let her be the Play Your Cards Right Girl. So I answer for her. "No, he didn't call. He's not interested. She told me. Leave her alone." Of course, he's called her every day. But if they know, if they are given any confidential information they will use it to torture, break down and harass my little widgeon into insecurity and desperation (I'd like to offer Exhibit One, her neurotic older sister, me, as proof of the veracity of that statement).

She knows to follow my lead when I answer for her. My mom looks at me, "I didn't ask you if he called. I asked your sister." And I say, "Mom, do you really want to make her talk about it and feel bad all over again?" And my little actress takes her cue, puts her head down, looking all sad. And my mom looks back and forth, trying to gauge the situation, because she already knows I'm not to be trusted, but she doesn't know I've got my sister in a crash course for manipulation and lying.

And she foolishly tries to circle in and attack from another angle, very sweetly this time, "But I just want to know if he called you?"

And my sister looks back and forth between us, not quite sure which way to go.

Lady, I see you coming from a mile away. "Mom, don't you think she would have told you if he called? (creating a false sense of security). Why are you trying to make it worse for her? (creating guilt). Leave her alone. (Looking at her levelly, maintaining full eye contact) Mom, he didn't call her. (Then the clincher - leaning and whispering conspiratorially) I'll tell you about it later."

Now she thinks I'm going to impart some sort of gossipy information that my sister is too upset to talk about.

As comprehension dawns on her face, my mother says, "Ohhh, okay, I understand."

And my sister looks at me in awe that I've not only managed to deflect this onslaught of questioning, but I've managed to create a situation where my mom will actually feel bad about bringing it up to her for fear of stirring up any residual negative feelings.

See, I think that an emotionally and mentally healthy, beautiful, intelligent 19 year old needs to date without pressure to get married. Because that's just crazy talk. No Grandma, no one NO ONE gets married at 19 anymore. BECAUSE THE BRIDE'S NOT EVEN OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK AT HER OWN DAMN WEDDING!

In private I grab her by the shoulders and tell her "Don't let them get to you. DON'T TELL THEM ANYTHING. ANYTHING." Repeat after me: "I will not be a Stepford wife. I will not be a Stepford wife."

Who knows, in a few months she might be as good a liar as I am to them, and then she can sneak off to Vegas with a secret boyfriend like I did at her age. It just takes practice.

Rules of Engagement for the On-Line Dating Impaired

1. Do not send me four charming and flattering emails, get my number, and then NOT call.

2. Do not use LOL in any communication with me. If you write LOL after something you've written, it makes what might have been funny NOT FUNNY AT ALL. I am not a studio audience that needs to be told when to laugh.

3. If you ask me out on a date, don't tell me you only want to meet for 20 minutes because "you've been on so many of these and you'd rather not waste your time if there's no chemistry." First of all, NO ONE has been on more dates than me. Second, if you can't spend an hour or two getting to know someone you've gone out of your way to meet on-line, then you're a narcissistic douchebag who doesn't deserve even one minute of my time, much less 20.

4. Do not send me more than one email. If I don't respond to your first email, the rest of them trying to cajole me into talking to you only make you seem like the psycho stalker you probably are.

5. Do not contact me if you don't have a picture of yourself posted in your profile. If you offer to send me one, and then I don't respond, now we both suck. You because you're ugly, me because I come across as a shallow bitch. Just post your ugly picture to begin with, so that you can get ignored like everyone else.

6. Do not have misspellings or incorrect grammar in your profile. You sound stupid.

7. Do not send me one sentence, grammatically incorrect emails like "your hott" or "How're ya doin hot stuff." By the way, "ya" is NOT a word.

8. Do not contact me if you're old enough to be my father.

9. Do not contact me if I'm old enough to have been your baby sitter.

10. Do not contact me if you live more than an hour away. I don't care how often you come to New York, I'm not a goddamn tour guide and I'm NOT going to be your booty call while you're in town.

11. Do not write about how handsome or good looking you are in your profile. That's what the picture is for. If you need to say you're good looking, you're probably not.

12. Do not write cliche lines like, "looking for a partner in crime", "I work hard and play hard", "I like a night on the town and I like a quiet night at home", "I like to take advantage of all this City has to offer." Not only do you sound stupid (see #6) you also sound like you have the personality of a wet paper towel.

13. Do not talk about your mother in your profile. (This should be self-explanatory).

14. Do not expect me to sleep with you on the first date. Lawyer does not mean HOOKER. (contrary to what you may have heard)

15. And most importantly, don't lie in your profile about your marital status, your child-having status, your level of education or anything that I can find out about you by doing a search on the wide variety of legal databases available to me. Dumbass.

Dating Advice From the Happily Married

My best friend has helped me devise a way to weed through the gagillion emails I've gotten on the dating site:

I think you should create a stock response. Maybe with a questionnaire... actually let's make it a contest. Oooh... I'm liking this.
Ok...

Round I
1) What is your favorite movie quote and why?
2) What kind of shoes are you wearing right now?
3) I have a hangover, what do you recommend?
4) We go away on romantic vacation to a beautiful, secluded spot. After lounging on our private beach for the day, we return to our bungalow and the butler tells you that your mother has called and would like you to call her back. What do you do? (this is a trick question - most points for "that's impossible, I wouldn't give my mother the number").

Based on the number of responses we could narrow it down to the top 10, have a second round, and then the top 3 get dates.

Round II
1) Write a haiku about your last relationship. (This is another semi-trick question. The grading, on a 1-10 scale would go something like this.)
0 points - they don't get the 5-7-5 right.... or any haiku such as the following: the wheel of romance, all I have left are pictures, my russian jackpot (what my ex used to call his ex-girlfriend while we were married)
1-7 points - any haiku about a past relationship
8-10 points - any haiku denying that there were any past relationships, 10 points if they compliment you as well
2) A person dies, and arrives at the gate to heaven. There are three doors - one of them leads to heaven, another one leads to a 1-day stay at hell, and then back to the gate, and the other leads to a 2-day stay at hell, and then back to the gate. Every time the person is back at the gate, the three doors are reshuffled. How long will it take the person to reach heaven?
Scoring should be based upon accurately answering the question (5 points) plus relevant religious musings (5 points).

This is the same great friend that used to console me when I would complain that I'm going to be single forever, by pointing out that actually one day I'm going to die.

Today's post will not attempt to be funny

Last night, one of my sister's friends was killed in a car accident. Alcohol, racing and drugs were not involved. He swerved to get out of another car's way, his car "went off the road" and hit a brick wall. He was pronounced dead at the scene. He was 25 years old.

I had a conversation with my uncle's wife on Friday night about religious belief. She is very spiritual, if not ardent about practicing, and truly believes in God. She believes, as many many do, that if you do good, it will come back to you. Conversely, your bad actions will only reap upon you the seeds you've sown. That there is a Plan, and God's role in this world may not be detail oriented, but is active nonetheless.

She insisted that we cannot understand God and his actions and this Plan he's got. She tried to impress upon me that even if I don't believe in religion or God, I should believe that my actions have consequences. That I have to believe in the goodness of mankind.

I disagreed with her. Sometimes, what life doles out is the thing of nightmares, like a mother losing her 25 year old son in a meaningless car accident. But this ideology tends to manufacture explanations and create answers for situations that are inexplicable.

I don't subscribe to the rewards/punishment-Judeao/Christian school of thought. I don't believe in a God that I don't understand, who has created a world where his presence is supposed to have a positive impact, but really doesn't. I told her people should be good and do the right thing as an end in and of itself, regardless of potential outcomes. I refuse to believe a person's actions dictates their fate, and that somehow blame can be a factor in explaining the unexplainable. I refuse to believe in some Plan by some being out there which indiscriminately causes happiness and pain. What is she really asking me to believe in?

I believe that I have to be a good person. I believe that I have to treat others with respect, kindness and love. I believe that I have to take the high road. I believe that I have to do the right thing every chance I get. And I think I always, always have to do these things, regardless of what happens in my life or in the life of those I love. And I believe that that's where it ends. I don't think I'll be rewarded, I don't think that things will go my way if...., I don't think that anything will happen, except that I did what I could to be a decent person.

Terrible, terrible things happen to wonderful people. Amazing, great things happen to awful people. That's the way this world works. There are no explanations. There are no excuses. There is no way to rationalize it. It is what it is.

This was all I could tell my 19 year old sister as she was sobbing in my arms, asking for answers.

Last night a terrible thing happened to a very wonderful, very special, deeply loved person. I can only say his loss will be sharply felt by everyone that knew him. I can only wish his family and close friends my deepest condolences.

Because of this loss, todays world is not as good as yesterdays.

Once a Sucker, Always a Sucker

My online dating profile is complete. Again.

About Me: No filter between brain and mouth. Can shoot gun. Well.
Languages Spoken: Can cuss in Greek, Hebrew, Farsi, Russian, Italian, French and Arabic. Well.
Pets: Have: Fleas; Don't Have But Would Like: Dog.
Religion: Heathen.
Best Physical Feature: My Rack.
Favorite Foods: Vegan/Barbecue.
Drinking Habits: Hello, my name is _____ and I'm an alcoholic
Smoking Habits: Only to get high.
Who I'm looking for: NO ASSEMBLY REQUIRED (batteries optional).

That sums it up, I think. Let the games begin.

Quote of the Day

You know what I like about deadlines? The sound that they make as they go whizzing by.

Mean Co-Workers

"I can't believe with all the networking websites and dating websites out there, you still can't find someone to marry you." Smarmy-Ass Co-Worker just said that to me. Verbatim. And then chuckled to himself and walked out of my office.

Is it still arson if you set a person on fire?

I've been through the ringer with online dating sites like JDate, or as I call it, JHell. Most of the men I know call it Lay-Date. And from what I hear, for good reason. It's true that I met many men on there, (I was quite popular, if I do say so myself - I would even get recognized when I went out sometimes) but that's clearly irrelevant since I'm still getting harrassed by Smarmy-Ass for being single.

My friends would muse out loud about how totally incredible it was that I had soooo many dates and yet absolutely nothing, NOTHING would come to fruition.
"I've never seen anything like it." (translation: you are clearly a moron that shouldn't be let loose on society.)
"What do you do on these dates?" (translation: in what horrifyingly neurotic way do you scare these men out of ever wanting to see you again?)
"What do you say on these dates?" (translation: do you let them see how pathetically needy and desperate you really are?)
"Maybe you shouldn't be so open." (translation: keep your damn yap shut and your obnoxious opinions to yourself. It's bad enough you're a divorced lawyer, just sit there and look pretty.)

In my defense, I was actually very nice to almost all of the guys I went out with, including the ones who lied about their age (I thought I told you I'm really 45. I wrote 35 in my profile by mistake), their height (No, I'm 5'10", your heels are what's making you three inches taller than me), their weight (I have muscles. I do. Really. Under these extra 50 pounds, there are lots of muscles), and their intentions.

It can't be all my fault. And if it is, then there must be someone out there who'll like me for me. I mean, as soon as he gets released from the asylum.

Etymology of the C-Word

Co-Worker: Why do all women go crazy when you call them the C word?
Me: Because it's the worst word in the English language.
Co-Worker: Why?
Me: Because it is.
Co-Worker: That's what I love about lawyers. Their ability to reason.

I wanted to tell him to "eat-me" but somehow that seemed inappropriate in a law office. Eat-me has not yet emerged as an appropriate legal rebuttal.

"Do you have anything further Counselor? "
"Yes your Honor, I would like to conclude my client's case by advising opposing counsel to eat-me. "

But I digress. In response to the above conversation I had with a co-worker yesterday, who now lovingly refers to me as BFC, I decided to research the question. Because really, who needs to do any work at the office.

The following is from Word Origins:

Cunt
This word for the female genitalia dates back to the Middle English period, c.1325. (Although researchers have found a London street named Gropecuntelane from c. 1230.) Although the word cannot be traced back further than this, there are cognates in a variety of other Germanic languages, indicating a Germanic origin.
Cunt does not come from the Latin cunnus, which is also a term for the female pudenda, although a common root back in the mists of time cannot be discounted. Use of the word as term of abuse for a woman is a 20th century sense, dating to 1929.

Dictionary.com states the following:
Cunt
n. Vulgar Slang
1. The female genital organs.
2. Sexual intercourse with a woman.
Notes: Offensive. Used as a disparaging term for a woman.
Used as a disparaging term for a person one dislikes or finds extremely disagreeable.

Now, thank goodness, all of your lives are complete, including smarmy-ass Co-Worker.

Let My People Go

If the choice is between holidays with the family or repeatedly jabbing a fork in my eye, someone pass me a fork.

This is NOT what they mean when they refer to the Passover questions.

“So, are you seeing anyone lately?”
“Anyone special in your life?”
“Are you dating anyone?”

Well, besides the guy I’m fucking on the Upper West Side, no. (On the inside.)
“No, no one special. I’m not really dating right now.” (On the outside.)

“Why, what’s the matter with you?” It’s always, “What’s the matter with you.” Like I’m some emotionally disfigured Chernobyl survivor.

I counted, and I’ve either been out on A DATE or DATED fifty-two men in the past year. FIFTY-TWO. That’s an average of one a week. That’s a lot of men. And I can honestly say I’m exhausted. Because it wasn’t one date a week. It was more like two to four dates a week and that’s a lot of running around on stilettos.

“You’ve gone out with so many people, and you haven’t been able to find one guy willing to date you?”

Thanks Grandma.

“No, I guess not.”

“Maybe you’re too picky? I mean, there can’t be something wrong with all of those guys. Maybe there’s something wrong with YOU.”

“Well, you know Grandma, I was dating for ten years before I met my ex-husband, and look how that turned out; it’s not easy to find someone to marry anymore.”

“What? You want to wait another ten years to get married? No one will marry you in ten years. No one wants to marry you now.”

Maybe the fork would look better in Grandma’s eye. (On the inside.)
“Grandma, don’t worry, I’ll find someone. I promise.” (On the outside.)

Yuk it up now God, because when I kill myself and go directly to Hell, I’m going to get all of my friends there together and then you’re in trouble. Oh yeah, I’m not afraid to threaten the big G. You goin’ down sucka!

Houston, We Have a Problem

"You forgot that the size of the cunt is also important (smaller is better). I have to say that you are a big fucking cunt.

And my Russian bride with a PhD is 10 times the woman than any American whiney bitch that I have ever seen. That goes double for J.A.P.!!!!"

Someone anonymously left me this comment in response to Friday's post: Size Matters, Get Over It.

Now I like to think that I'm the kind of person that can take criticism well, but if you're going to call me a big fucking cunt, you better have the balls to sign your name to it. Or else you come across as a big fucking pussy. And that's just not fun.

Dear Anonymous:
I'm sorry you're not man enough to find a bride here in America and had to resort to a mail order bride. There are many many wonderful, successful, amazing women here in the States (not necessarily all American) who would make great wives.

Also, your second to last sentence:

• And my Russian bride with a PhD is 10 times the woman than any American whiney bitch that I have ever seen,

doesn't sound quite right. Maybe you should have written:

• My Russian bride, who has a PhD, is 10 times the woman of any whiney American bitch I have ever seen.

See? Doesn't that flow better?

And I'm not sure if you're from New York or not, but it's not "That goes double for J.A.P." it's actually, "That goes double for A Jap." There should be an indefinite article before the word "Jap." I'm no English expert, I'm just saying.

Furthermore, name calling is not nice. It's really just bad manners. Especially when you're speaking to a complete stranger. I'm not sure why my post managed to get under your foreskin, but you seem pretty irritable. Have you considered yoga? Maybe meditation would be a good avenue for you to pursue. Either way, some anger management is definitely in order.

------------------------------------

In all seriousness, comments are always welcome. Even mean or critical comments are welcome. But ANONYMOUS mean comments will get deleted from now on. This blog is about having some laughs, it's not about bringing anyone down. If you don't like what you read, "change the channel" because you and I obviously don't have the same sense of humor. (More likely that you don't have a good sense of humor - because I'm damn funny, but that's neither here nor there.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Size Matters, Get Over It

I'm not afraid to admit it. Size matters. Oh yes, it does.

Now I'm not talking about it having the ability to cripple me, but I better be able to feel something. And I mean FEEL.

Let's be honest, the size of my ass matters. The length of my hair matters. Let's not forget the twins, Thelma and Louise. How they fill out a tight tank top matters. And I'm okay with that. But make no mistake, the male correlative is the penis, and its size is important to most women.

If you have a problem with this statement, you probably have a small pecker. But don't worry, because the size of your donger is NOT the only thing that matters to women.

For example, the size of a guy's bank account matters too. Now don't get crazy, let me say my part, and then feel free to go nuts. But in today's day and age, women are more successful than ever before, and they have the bank to prove it. Why not want a man on par?

Now I certainly don't condone those women who have nothing going on for themselves but chase men with money to secure a nice setup. (Insert Russian mail-order bride mental image here). I'm talking about the woman who works her butt off through school and at her job, and is looking for a partner.

The size of a guy's ego matters. There's a lot of swagger here in New York. And it's NOT attractive. I don't care if he can poke my eye out from across the living room with it, if he's arrogant, an eye poke is all he gets.

The size of his relationship with his mother matters. Oh dear lord, this is the worst. So many whiny, weenie, scrotum-less little boys running around, dressed up in suits. There are so many mamma's boys here in NY, and yet I'm still amazed an umbilical cord can stretch that far without breaking. I used to make little scissor motions in front of my ex's belly button. But I digress. I don't care if King Kong can climb it and swat at helicopters from the top, if a guy talks to his mom every day, I'm not going anywhere near it.

But size still matters. Because if a woman finds a great guy, and he's, um, shall we say, disappointingly endowed, that's going to be a problem. A woman may never say anything to him, but rest assured the topic is getting heavy coverage at lunch, drinks, dinner, phone calls and shopping with the girls. And the forecast is bleak.

And the motion of the ocean might help, but if you're small, I suggest you start surfing the net, asap. Once you order your bride from Russia, she'll be so happy to be here, she might wait a few months after you're married before she starts cheating on you.

I Deserve to be Single

"You're a blushing school girl. Or a blithering idiot. One of the two."

I vote blithering idiot.

While walking towards the elevator banks with a co-worker, a very handsome, very tall, very square-jawed guy with piercing blue eyes, gets out of the elevator and walks past us, checking his blackberry.

Our conversation, taking its obvious and natural course, turns into how I plan on spending the weekend spackling, sanding and painting some walls in my apartment (since it's going to rain). I mean, what else would two women in suits be talking about.

Square-Jaw, for some reason only god in heaven knows, has turned around, and is now standing behind me, listening to this INANITY. Listening to me yammer on about SPACKLE and SAND PAPER. And then, gets into the elevator.

And turns to me, in an attempt to start a normal, human-on-human conversation, and says, "You spackle?"

Clearly incapable of having a homosapien-like conversation, I respond, "Yeah, I guess, if I need to. Sometimes. I mean....uh, yeah. I guess. Uh, yeah."

Square Jaw, somewhat taken aback, but still hopeful of finding intelligent life in the elevator, tries again, "I hear guys talk about that stuff all the time, but never a young woman. "

As I start blushing furiously FURIOUSLY (like my head is about to explode off my neck) I respond, "Um, yeah. Spackle, I uh...sure. Sand paper. " And proceed to get out of the elevator.

THIS, folks, is why I'm still single. For all of my friends out there, feel free to abuse me like a substitute teacher. You know the number.

Things I learned over the weekend

Albert Einstein did not believe in god. Albert Einstein is a genius.
I do not believe in god. Therefore I am a genius.

My baby sister (who's 19) can lose the cotton end of a q-tip in her ear canal. Twice. In six months. And still freak the fuck out.

That I can, and will, bump into every random person I have ever known in the past 15 years in SoHo, but will NEVER bump into the ONE neurosurgeon that I love in a very pathetic, he doesn't even remember my name, kind of way.

That everyone, EVERYONE that goes to Vegas for a bachelor party gets laid there.

That I should never, NEVER let my fiancee have a bachelor party in Vegas.

That the chiropractor I stopped dating was telling acquaintances of ours that we were seeing each other in a sort of serious way. Loser.

That a British accent will make any man 2.5 times more attractive than he was before he opened his mouth.

That an Italian accent will make me (and my friends) want to have sex with you immediately.

That I can eat obscene amounts of junk food at 3 a.m., including spicy hotdogs and pepperoni pizza in the same sitting.

That the DVD player I bought six months ago to play CDs isn't broken. All I needed to do was TURN UP THE VOLUME on the TV. I am a JACKASS.

That my baby sister is now officially prettier than I am - as referenced by former admirers of mine who have (quite vocally) decided to change camps. Bastards.

Alice in Wonderland

Random things I hear in my office on any given day:

I'm not that dumb, huh?

I want to buy cowboy boots.

What happened to all of your pencils?

I'm hoping that when you leave, I'll be able to knock the wall between our offices down. Maybe put in some french doors.

[Person X launching peas from spoon. Person Y attempting to catch airborn peas in mouth]
Y: Did you shoot already? Is it in my hair?!
X: I haven't heard someone say that in years.

The mail guy moves too fast. Should have known after watching him dance at the Christmas party. You know how those Latins are.

Me: Can I borrow your BlueBook?
X: Well, how long are you going to borrow it for? Are you going to bring it back? You're not going to keep it are you?
Me: Give me the damn book.

My first legal advice to you is that you need a psychological evaluation.

The Mets have character.
The Mets don't have character, they have mullets.

The Right Thing to Do

OK, so I just heard the strangest words strung together to make an actual sentence I think I've EVER heard in my life - just outside my office:

"Hello, I'm calling regarding a credit to my account that shouldn't be there."

Whaaaa?!?!?! Are you crazy?

I almost tackled my co-worker, but they try to discourage wrestling in the hallways during office hours. (I'll wait until after five).

We're lawyers, for Christ's sake!!! We TAKE people's money, we don't give it back. What kind of messed up set of morals does this guy have?! He's even a REPUBLICAN!!! They have special training sessions for these scenarios, with instructional videos and practice runs. I'm shaking my head in disappointment. I expected more from him, but apparently someone was raised wrong. Very very wrong.

It's the Little Things in Life

The Ambassador to Evil is exasperated, again, by me of course. Tonight prospective hires are coming to our firm from my alma mater. We're having a little soiree for them, try to make them understand the Greatness that is this firm and why they should do whatever is necessary to claw their way into our ranks. (I really do work for an amazing firm - a hard thing to say when there are so many lawyers in close proximity. But it's true. I swear.)

I didn't RSVP to the soiree.

Secretary to the Ambassador to Evil: Why didn't you RSVP?
Me: I didn't think it was necessary.
Secretary: I've sent out FOUR emails.
Me: Listen, you sent out an email from the Ambassador. He does not make requests. It's a given that I'm coming. Just because you posed a command in the form of an invitation, doesn't make it so.
Secretary: (annoyed) Well, now you don't have a name tag.
Me: I don't? No problem, I'll just make one.
Ambassador: (running out of his office after hearing my last comment) NO! No. You can't make one. God knows what the hell you'll show up with. We'll get you a name tag. You. Are. Not. To. Make. One. Yourself.
Me: What do you think I'm going to show up with?! A piece of oak-tag tied with yarn around my neck?
Ambassador: (shaking head in resignation) I don't even want to contemplate the things that brain of yours could come up with.

So now, even though there obvioulsy won't be one, I have to invite him to the "tequila- shot table" tonight. I've never actually seen anyone have an aneurysm, but I'll be sure to post about it tomorrow.