Guerrilla Warfare - A Guide to Jewish Mothering

This handbook is secreted into delivery rooms around the world and comes in almost all languages. It provides a step-by-step guide on how to manipulate, coerce and guilt a Jewish child into submission.

The existence of this handbook is only provided upon birth or imminent birth of a Jewish child to a Jewish mother. This handbook reveals the intricacies involved in making a person who had the potential of becoming a normal well-adjusted member of society into a neurotic, guilt-obsessed, passive-aggressive Mama's Boy/Girl.

This handbook contains key phrases and silent treatment techniques that are practically guaranteed to be effective, including but not limited to:

• I gave up everything to raise you. And THIS is the thanks I get.
• No really, you do whatever you think is right. I mean, who am I to have an opinion? I'm just your mother.
• Eat. There are people starving all over the world, and you're too good to eat my food.
• When I was your age, I used to walk five miles to school. Uphill. Both ways. In the snow. All year round. And all you do is want want want.
• No, it's fine. You go out and enjoy your life. I'll just sit here. By myself. In the dark. *deep sigh*
• Who am I to want to want to see my son/daughter/grandchildren more than once a month?
• Oh, you finally called. It's nice to know you remember you have a mother.

Comparisons with other children to make sure your child feels inadequate are key. For example:

• Did you hear about the Goldstein boy? He got into Harvard. Oy, his mother must be so proud. What I am going to tell the ladies at Temple about you?
• Did you hear about Shari Klein? She got engaged to a DAWCTA. At least HER mother can rest easy. Isn't Shari two years younger than you?

Enlisting the help of women who have the handbook is also fair game. These women are highly trained and need only minimal coaching and/or information to effectuate the desired result:

• It's your grandmother. Why haven't you called your poor mother? Do you know the agony she's going through worrying about you?
• It's your aunt Ester. Have you gone to see your mother lately? Really? You've been busy? Apparently not too busy to go out with your friends, but too busy to see your own mother. I see.

And of course, if all else fails, the secret weapon: Crying. But use this with caution. Over-use of the Crying Weapon will only cause suspicion and backfire.

Change Your Own Diaper - Yes, I Would Make the Worst Mother

There is something wrong with my biological clock. It's not working. I don't hear any ticking. Nothing. Nada. Crickets. I might be the only living female who is almost 30, and not in the least concerned with having children.

To be perfectly honest, I would probably prefer to not have children. No one believes me. They think I'm lying or scared. My girlfriends call me crazy and brush off that statement as if I never really said it. Of course you want to have kids, they say, you're a woman. Every woman wants to have children.

And I tell them that I don't even like children. They smell, and slobber all over the place. And I have to pay attention to them, and play with them, when all I really want to do is watch some TV, maybe take a nap. But you'll love your own children. It's the most beautiful thing in the world, they insist.

And I tell them I'm not too keen on the responsibility. I like having my freedom to come and go as I please. What do you mean I have to PAY someone to watch it when I'm not around! This is worse than taking care of a dog, and I don't even have time for a dog. Dammit. And then my friends call me selfish. Selfish? Okay, maybe. But at least self-aware. And honest.

Why do you want to get married if you don't want kids, they demand. And I tell them that I look at marriage as two people who love each other and want to devote their lives to one other. Some choose to have families, some may be okay just being together without any additions. This for some reason evokes anger, as if I blew off the semester offering Being a Real Woman 101, when there was a waiting list for the class. Geez.

And to say something that will make most people gasp in shock and horror (and probably never read this blog again): I don't think pregnant women are beautiful. I think they look like they're pregnant. They look uncomfortable and swollen, and tired. They worry about their weight and their bloated ankles, the stretch marks on their stomachs, and the back pain that doesn't allow them to sit still for five minutes. These women do not look happy to me. And personally, I don't think a woman who looks like she's carrying a basketball under her shirt is very attractive. Waddling, hhhhmmm, not so nice. And unless that whole "inner glow" thing has something to do with the sweats after their morning sickness, I haven't seen much "glowing" going on.

Of course, this whole issue is premature, since I'm in no danger of getting knocked-up by anyone right now. Like my grandmother says, "First you need to find the donkey, before you can take him for a ride."

Unfortunately, all the men I meet want kids. And they don't want just one or two, they want a soccer team. And they expect me to stay home and take care of them. What happened to the good old days, when men viewed children as a burden, and only had them because their wives brow-beat them into it? Why can't I find a guy like that?

Men have it easy in the kid department. They get up, go to work, be intellectual, make money, talk to their buddies at the urinal, and come home to "Daddy, daddy, daddy!! I missed you! Look what I made!" while I stand in the doorway to the kitchen in an apron, covered in poop stains and magic marker, a spatula in one hand, and a baby dangling by its diaper in the other, my hair looking like I've been playing with electricity all day, matted with food that number three, the forward, thought would look better in my hair than in her mouth, while I watch the touching scene of my husband and number five, the goalie, unfold in my foyer. My husband plays with the future Pele for a little while, puts the baby down, eats his dinner, watches TV, gets his blow-job and goes to bed. Um yeah, I don't think so.

I think the only solution is to find an older man, divorced, with grown children. I could be the evil, younger trollop step-mother, after their daddy's money. The newer model, someone his ex-wife will call that "Chippy Bimbo." I could be a chippy bimbo. I could be THE chippy bimbo, as long as I don't have to have to kids.

Her Schwartz is Almost as Big as Mine

My Life is God's Comic Strip: Yo, kiddo! Are you coming out tonight?

19 Year Old Virgin Baby Sister: No, I have a date.

MLIGCS: oooo-ooooooo, you have a daaaate? With who? Is he cute?

19YOVBS: Yes, he's cute, he's an athlete. He was in the Olympics.

MLIGCS: NIIIICE!!! Are you wearing your pretty-pretty panties?

19YOVBS: Actually, I'm not wearing any panties.

MLIGCS: *sniffle* You have learned well, young Jedi.

My Life Goes From Sucks to Blows

Once upon a time, not very long ago, there was a certain neurosurgeon that I was madly and painfully in love with. Not real love, of course, because adulation, worship and a lack of spinal column equate to more of a, "I'm so infatuated with you that I'm going to make a total ass out of myself until you get disgusted by my undignified behavior and leave me" kind of love.

The kind where he says "jump," and I say, "I'm already in the air." Sad, sad but oh so true.

We dated briefly; gave it two tries in six months. And it's been about six months since I last saw him. I think about him sometimes, and I say to myself, "Why couldn't he just like me? If he liked me, and we were together, it would have been perfect." And then I try to get a hold myself and stop acting like such a desperate pussy-ass girl.

I also think about him when I bump into random people I know, and wish it was him instead of them. Yes, there is no limit to how pathetic I can be. No, there are not enough help groups in the world to save me.

Last week he was on my mind again, but this time, I thought, "Wow, I think I'm totally over him finally. Must be this new guy I'm spending time with. Why bother with the idea of someone, when you have a real live person caring about you."

But who the hell am I kidding?! I mean, the title of the damn blog is "My Life is God's Comic Strip" and based on prior experiences, we all know this healthy attitude and clear-minded state of affairs can't last.

Saturday, while spending time with this new guy, who happens to be AMAZING, I think to call one of my friends to make plans for the evening. Turns out she has plans with a new friend, who is bringing some of his pals out with them. And she hesitates and says, "I don't want to ruin your weekend," but I'm in such a good mood, I'm thinking nothing can ruin my weekend. Until she tells me that one of the pals coming out is the neurosurgeon.

"What?! WHAT?!?!?!?! You're going out with the NEUROSURGEON? MYYYYYY NEUROSURGEON?!?!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's such a weird coincidence."

"Listen to me, and listen to me good. You are going to bring me up in conversation somehow, and you are GOING TO MAKE ME SOUND LIKE A GODDAMNED ROCKSTAR. I am nothing short of AMAZING, WONDERFUL AND LIVING IT UP. If he doesn't say he knows me, you offer to set us up because I'm SO FUCKING GREAT. If he says he knows me, you act like he's OUT OF HIS MIND FOR LETTING ME GO. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Mental Note to Self

When talking to the young partner who has a crush on you about an interview he just conducted, don't joke that the only reason you got hired was because you gave the Hiring Committee blow-jobs. All blow-job talk should be saved for the Christmas party, where you get really hammered and can let yourself go.

The Somewhat Pinkish, or Maybe Mauve Letter

I grew up having it hammered into my head that I absolutely had to remain a virgin until I got married. If I didn't, that meant I was a terrible person with no morals and self-control and no one would marry me. And since the goal of bringing female babies into this world in my culture is so that they can grow up, get married and bring more babies into the world, pre-marital sex essentially meant social ostracism the likes of which makes Hester Prynn seem like the town mayor.

In high school I never had a date. Not even one. Not even to my prom. Needless to say, people who know me now and see pictures from then have a nice time making fun. And yes, there's a lot of material.

When the topic of high school comes up today, someone always invariably asks, "so, who did you hang out with? The football players? Were you a cheerleader?" To which I respond, "no, I was a nerd in honors classes and played on the badminton team. I had braces until the end of junior year, and my uncle's pet name for me was Chunk, after his fat dog." No one believes me. That's fine with me. Let them think I'm being modest.

Seeing as how my chances for losing my virginity were not that high, I wasn't that concerned with my morals. But then I got to college. And met boys. And met the gym. And invariably met the end of my virginity.

But even then, I had such a guilty feeling, it was such a big deal at 19. It was a big deal until I got married at 26. Having sex with someone meant they were my boyfriend. Meant we were in a serious relationship. SERIOUS. There were no one-night stands in my past (and actually, for all of my philandering, there still aren't any one night stands.)

My ex-husband couldn't care less that I wasn't a virgin. My mother, on the other hand, insisted I lie to him and even offered to take me to the gynecologist to reinstate the evidence with a couple of quick stitches. Um, no thanks. I'll take my chances.

Today, as I get older, sex isn't the big deal it was a few years ago. It doesn't come with titles and classifications of "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." Now it's "dating" or "seeing someone" or even just "hanging out." The people you date don't ask where you spend your nights when you're not with them. It's an unspoken rule: No one is exclusive, even if you're having sex, unless you have "the talk." "The talk" has replaced sex as the threshold for entering into a serious relationship. And you can bet you're not having "the talk" anytime soon.

Even though I've bought into this whole way of dating, I still have a weird need to classify whatever it is I'm doing with someone. You know, are we "seeing each other" or are we "just friends" or are we "friends with benefits" and so on. I think it's a female-type need, to create parameters on some level in order to create a sense of security, a sense of standing on hard ground. If you name it and define it, it takes shape and becomes something. Women tend to have a greater need to define, to make it something over "well, let's just see where things go...." But at the end of the day, no matter how many words we use, it's our actions that determine the outcome of our relationships. Actions are the most telling example of someone's feelings. There are "boyfriends" that act like total jerks, and guys you're "seeing" who are really just amazing. So maybe it's okay that a relationship doesn't have a title. At the end of the day, as women, I think it's okay to relax with the titles we need to put on things and just let the relationship evolve.

Who knows, if I can play it cool long enough, I might reach my goal of "Dr. and Mrs. So Damn Rich I Don't Need to Work Another Day in My Life and Have Decided to Take Up Cooking and Piano Lessons When I'm Not Meeting With My Personal Trainer." A girl can dream.

Things Men Feel Comfortable Enough to Say to Me

I told my family I was coming to visit you and if I don't return, I'm either married or dead. Which if you think about it, is essentially the same thing.

Quote of the Day

You're looking at me like I'm the idiot child of a man who had to wear protective head-gear for the better part of his life.

And the Winner Is....

Hee Haw, Missouri sucks hairy moose balls.

The jury ESPECIALLY sucks, and plaintiff's attorney can spend the rest of his life giving them head. And swallowing.

The problem with having trials in bum fuck, where the education is scarce but Hollywood movies with their Hollywood endings proliferate, is that these nice, simple folk, get the wrong idea about the legal system.

Just because the plaintiff is from your hometown, with his "Aw shucks, golly gee wiz, those darn Northerners done come down here and try to take advantage of us nice, hardworking simple folk and they deserve to be punished!!" attitude does not automatically entitle him to win. No really. Good thing there's an appellate system in place. Mr. Hee Haw won't see a dime for a very very long time.

The problem with the case is that it turned into a turf war, having nothing to do with the evidence. Or the lies plaintiff was caught in on the stand. Or the fact that he practically admitted that he concocted the entire thing. So the jury wanted to stick it to the outsiders, those "horrible people up north that don't give a damn about the little guy."

The whole trial was surreal, as if To Kill A Mockingbird was being played out before my eyes. Plaintiff's counsel grandstanding, character witnesses that included plaintiff's eighth-grade bus driver and his preacher. Fifty-eight thousand references to how the plaintiff was "saved" by returning to the church, and how he now lives his life according to Jesus's teachings.

Of course, it was painfully disappointing to have spent two weeks in Hee Haw only to lose. So on Friday, after finding out the verdict, I did what any attorney would do, I started drinking heavily and didn't stop until I got home and passed out in my clothes. Eight vodka rocks, three at the airport, five on the plane. And one lost wallet later.

Saturday morning I crawled to the bank, dark circles of makeup under my eyes, to cancel my accounts and order a new debit card.

"So ma'am, did you say you lost your wallet or it was stolen?"

"Um, I lost it. And would you mind not screaming?" I rasped.

"I'm not screaming ma'am."

"Oh."

Greetings from Bum-Fuck

I’m in Missouri, or as they like to call it here, Missour-ah. I will be in Missour-ah until Labor Day weekend for a trial. Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. I’m actually not only in Missour-ah, but I’m in one of the deepest darkest corners of the “Show Me” State (Show me what? I have no idea because in all honesty, there’s NOTHING here I want to see).

For some reason, everyone keeps asking if I’m from New York, even though I’ve tried my gosh golly darndest to be as sweet and nice as peach pie. I haven’t lost my temper once and I haven’t even rushed anyone to move faster than their regular speed of neutral bordering on reverse.

Scenes from My Cousin Vinny keep flashing across my mind, and I live in constant fear while I drive with the radio on and the windows down that some state trooper is going to pull me over, confiscate my CD, chuck me under the chin with my driver’s license and tell me “there’s no dancin’ in these here parts. Preacher don’t allow it.”

Some older gentleman near the courthouse leaned in real close yesterday, leering and asked, after winking at me, whether I was Indian. I wasn’t sure if he meant dots or feathers, but I just skee-dadled away from him as fast as my stilettos allowed.

Being of Middle Eastern descent, I contemplated lying and telling everyone I was I-talian before coming here. But something about lying about my background bothers me. This is still America, after all. So I lied and told him I was Israeli, close enough, but not as inflammatory as the real deal. He made some weird ooooo-ing sound and has left me alone since.

Missour-ah is not that bad. Everybody is real friendly, and the truck to person ratio is about 3 to 1. I’m off to decide which fine dining establishment I want to eat at tonight, this will probably be my hardest decision of the day. Hhhhmmm, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse…..Fuck it, I’ll splurge and order pizza. Can’t go wrong with pizza. It’s like sex, even when it’s bad, it’s still kinda good.

Saturday Night Fever

- I found you an apartment, exactly in the area you wanted.

- No way Mom!

- Yes, the guy is getting married and he’s giving up his place. It’s an illegal rental, so no lease to worry about. Come to his wedding on Saturday night with me, his landlord will be there, she’s a little old lady; make nice to her, she’ll love you, you’ll get a great apartment.

- Shit, I have to come to his wedding? I hate these weddings, everyone stares at you and gossips.

- Look what’s the big deal, you spend one night with your mom, one wedding, and then you get a great place to live in.

- Fine. The things I have to do to find decent housing in this city.

Saturday night……

- Hey, didn’t you go out with that guy a few years ago?

- Who? The one with the hair plugs? Yeah, I did. Look, he’s here with someone. I think that’s a ring on her finger. Oh he was a nice guy, I’m happy for him…..Bartender, glass of white wine please.

23 minutes later……..

- Um, MLIGCS?

- Yeah Mom?

- Isn’t that your ex-boyfriend?

- Oh my god, I haven’t seen him since we got engaged and I left him for my ex-husband. Ohhhh, look at his wife, she’s gorgeous. And, wait, does she look pregnant to you?

- Yeah, maybe only a few months, but pregnant. She’s really tall, and so thin, even pregnant.

- Yes, I see that. Thanks Mom…..Bartender, vodka. Rocks.

17 minutes later……

- Oh dear lord, there’s my ex-mother-in-law. I didn’t know she was going to be here. I haven’t seen her since I left my motherfucking wife-beating ex. Jesus, could this night get any worse?

- Well, actually…..

- IS THAT MY motherfucking wife beating ex-husband?!?!?! AND HE’S HERE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND?!?!?!? I didn’t know she’s a blond…..What the fuck is going on? This was supposed to be a wedding, not a goddamn convention. Bartender, whiskey. Neat. Actually, just give me the damn bottle.

The Real Reason They're Called Blind

The problem with going on a bazillion blind dates is that when you meet someone, on the bazillion and one blind date, who, once AGAIN, misrepresented themselves and looks nothing like their picture, you basically want to throw a drink in your own face so the alcohol can burn your retinas and optical nerves up into your brain and kill the neurons holding the image of their ugly lying face from your mind as you blindly grope your way out of the bar.

Produce is in Aisle Three

I know it doesn't say "turnip" across my forehead. The reason I know this is because I've caught glimpses of myself in various mirrors on occasion, and my forehead is blank. No writing, no scribbles, no signs, no doodles.

So I'm always amazed when someone attributes to me the intelligence levels of a vegetable. Not that there's anything wrong with turnips, per se, but really, everyone knows they're not as smart as asparagus or a particularly advanced cauliflower.

My girlfriend and I both met a guy whose romantic overtures we each rejected (unbeknownst to either of us at the time). And then, I receive a very curious email from him, months and months later.

The email asked about life, what's going on, singledom, the usual tripe. And oh so casually let me know he sent my girlfriend an email that went unanswered.

In response to my brilliantly witty and interesting reply letting him know that we are still single, he decides to offer himself as a prospective candidate. TO BOTH OF US. The, "hey there's always a great guy here in [somewhere that totally sucks] if ever your friend or you have interest ;)". (Don't even get me started on the emoticon).

Gentlemen, please, pay attention to the following: If a woman ignores you, don't try to circumvent her rejection by backdooring in through her friends. Women, although crazy and emotional on occasion, ARE NOT STUPID. I AM NOT STUPID. Oh, and I'm also not a pimp.

And please, for the love of god and all things holy and sacred on this good earth, you don't let a woman know she's part of your lineup. Seriously, fishing operations need to be covert. Not, "Hey, I'll take you, or your friend, or even that woman standing off to your left..."

Matters of the heart are delicate, and should be treated as such. Dipshit.

Conversation Snippets of Interest

My first drink ever was a flaming shot of 151.

What's that?

It's a shot of 151, lit on fire.

Oh.......Do you blow it out first?
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Hey, I know this is a long shot, but my old college roommate, from about 12 years ago, lives in the town you used to live in for a while. You wouldn't happen to know Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor would you?

Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor? Hhmmm? Oh yeah,yeah, I think I know him. I went out on a couple of dates with him.
What?! You actually know him?

Listen, if he's single and Jewish, and in the State of New York at some point in his life, chances are I dated him.

Where did you guys meet?

On JDate.

Are you still on it?

No.

Why?

Because there's only a finite supply of men on JDate.....
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MLIGCS: Listen, guys, we appreciate your interest in chatting us up and buying us drinks, but really, we're waaaay too old for you.

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: There's no way you're older than me.

MLIGCS: How old are you?

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: 24.

MLIGCS: Oh. I guess we're the same age.....Wanna dance?
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MLIGCS: Is that a hair growing out of the mole on her upper lip?

Friend: (shudders) I think so.

MLIGCS: It's really long.

Friend: I know, it's scary looking.

MLIGCS: It's thick like a pubic hair, but it's sticking straight out.

Friend: Yup. Do you think she knows its there?

MLIGCS: She probably uses it to floss.

Meow

MLIGCS: Look, I really don't want her to come out with us tonight, she's not any fun, and she's a total cock-block.

Girlfriend: Oh, stop being such a baby, she won't cause any trouble. And we're all going out in a group, so you'll have a good buffer.

Four hours later.....

Young strapping male in a group talking to Cock-block says to me:

Hey, Cock-block says you're crazy. She says you're the total crazy one in the group.

Really? That's funny. Yes, actually I am. I'm Crazy. But she's Easy. So gentlemen, start your engines.

If the Shoe Fits.....

In response to this on my match.com profile: "I don't like pedicures because I can't stand anyone touching my feet. I don't like manicures because I don't have the patience to sit around and watch nail polish dry"

I get this:

Dear MLIGCS,

I was searching through the on-line personals and came across your profile.

You seem like a very nice person and one who I think I have a lot in common. Of course, I do have a foot fetish and hope this will not be a problem for you. I love everything about feet. I like socks too. If I like a woman, I want to sleep with her socks. And sometimes, put my penis in her socks. I also can only reach an orgasm when I get a "foot job" and find nothing more sexually arousing then bringing a woman to climax with my foot. Some men are turned on by watching "fisting" films, but my library consists of "footing" films.

Have you seen the work of Troy McFoote? He has been in such films as"Footing Angels", "Something is afoot in Savanah's bedroom", "2 Feet from Heaven" and "Footsie and Tootsie go to Washington." (The latter has an anal footing scene that won an AVF award).

I suspect the reason I like feet so much is that I do not have arms. Well, no arms below the elbow. (I thought I should mention that also.) Some women are turned on by stubs, which I often cover with a vibrating steel cover. But, come to think of it, the stubs actually look like little feet, so this too may be problematic. I hope not.

I think in every other way I am the perfect man for you.

I anxiously await your reply.
The Foot Master

I love my friends.....

Admitting You Have a Problem is the First Step

Try to tell me that I can't have something, and now....I. Have. To. Have. It. Try to tell me that you're not interested in me, and now....I think I love you.

It's always the way. "Hhhmmm, not so sure if I'm really that into him" turns into "Oh my god, what am I going to doooooo, I'll never find anyone like him agaiiiiiin. Waaaaaaaa" when you break up.

"Yeah, he's ok I guess" becomes "He's soooo amazing, I love everything about him and want to have babies with him" the minute you find out he's dating other people.

Your backup becomes Bachelor(ette) Number One the minute you find out you're actually their backup. Sucker.

Losing the power (power you only THOUGHT you had, when in reality, you had NOTHING BUT DELUSIONS OF YOUR OWN DESIRABILITY) will always turn a confident, relaxed person in the dating world into a sniveling pile of insecurity, chock full of aberrant behavior, pathetic phone calls, and that desperate nervous little giggle every time they're with the other person.

Happens to me all the time. I just found out that a girl on my trip to Greece thought one of the guys I was interested in was cute. His "cuteness" has just tripled for no reason other than the smell of competition and that his options have just expanded beyond me. Now, He Must Be Mine.

My friend, on a date with a woman last night that he was sort of interested in, is very depressed today. Because last night, she revealed that she's dating someone else as well, and is...torn between them. Now, he loves her.

"What?! I'm NOT your One and Only?.....But I think we're soul mates destined to be together by the gods; it's written in the stars. Yes, I just realized it this second. What's your point?"

Puh-leeze

Irony, (no, not a black fly in your chardonnay...) is when you stop seeing someone, rejoin the internet dating site you met him on, and get an email from the site with your "potential matches" where he (out of thousands) happens to be highlighted as one of your perfect matches. I mean really.

Kindergarten Hath No Fury Like A Grown Man Scorned

The silent treatment is an interesting, if somewhat outdated, method of dealing with hurt feelings and anger. I can understand its effectiveness when one is attempting to avoid saying something akin to kicking the other person in the jimmy. Or when you want to send a clear, Bat-signal-like message that, "Hey, I'm rip roaring mad, and instead of just telling you why, you're going to find out by me ignoring you, you asking me what's wrong, and me ignoring you even more." The proverbial Na Na Na Na Poo Poo, if you will.

Well, the problem with writing a blog is that sometimes your blog involves talking about other people and their relation to your life. Those people may not appreciate all the things you write about them. Of course, they clearly appreciate all the good things you write, but the bad is always taken as if you've written the most vituperative, scathing pile of epithets ever strung together. Please, get over yourself, no one takes it as seriously as you do.

Once again, someone is PISSED about something I've written. Heinrich has gotten his diaper all up in a bunch because of the post, You Have the Right to Remain Silent. He wasn't angry for weeks after I posted it, but for some reason, last week, he was ANGRY, and we had an argument. Which ended with me apologizing profusely, licking the bottom of his feet, and taking it down the next day. I figured if something I did made someone I care about that upset, then the only right thing to do was apologize and attempt to remedy the wrong as best I could.

Heinrich told me he didn't want to talk to me, because he needed time to calm down. He then contacted me, proceeded to stand me up on our date and refused to return any of my calls.

Two days later, I receive a lame text, (by lame I mean, ":(" ), I asked "?" to which he responded "I don't like you, mad but I do miss you." Okay. But he also told me to leave him alone, so I did.

After a few days of not quite knowing what the hell was going on, especially when this was someone that I would speak with, IM, text, and/or see every single day, I decided to just ask whether he was so angry that we were no longer seeing each other? Or whether he was still waiting to calm down? (via text message, since phone calls weren't being returned, and emails were ignored). Of course, he ignored this. So I was forced to say that the silent treatment was hurtful and that an answer was only fair. He finally wrote me back, saying that he's trying to calm down. And has proceeded to ignore me since.

I know dear readers that you will say that he's found someone else or is just trying to punish me, or something shady is going on (maybe the feds got him and he had to use his one phone call to call his attorney...), or he hates me and just wants to torture me for as long as he can. And that's all well and good. But I honestly believe that this is an ego issue. A Big Ego Issue. And there just comes a point where I'm done assuaging his tender ego. And that point is one week and one day.

I figure a week is fair, we've only been dating for two months. He gets one week to ignore me, be mean, stand me up, be disrespectful and treat me badly even though I've apologized profusely, groveled and removed the offensive post. Now, I'm done caring. The post is going back up. And his childishness and petulance, along with his white-collar criminal activities, are put on display for all to read about. Because there is some crap up with which I will not put.

Quote of the Day

When god closes a door, he always opens a window, because you can't throw yourself out of a door.