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.

The Bachelor Party Rears Its Ugly Head Into Yet Another Relationship That Was Going Well

It was a sneak-attack bachelor party. "I'm going away for a female friends' wedding, I'll only be gone for three days...." turns into, "Hey baby, what's up?! I just called to say hello, but I gotta run! Going out with the Groom and a bunch of guys right now! Yeah, its the bachelor party! (guys' loud, excited, somewhat drunk voices in the background, calling out to each other) There'll be lots of drinking! But no funny stuff, the groom is not that kind of guy."

On the inside: The groom is not what kind of guy? The kind of guy that likes to go out and drink? Not the kind of guy that enjoys sex? Not the kind of guy that's attracted to women? Not the kind of guy that's out for his last hoorah? Oh, so the groom is either GAY or a EUNUCH. OR, more appropriately, you think I'm a MORON.

Lurid images floated through my head of things good friends have told me, have warned me about that go on at bachelor parties. Wonderful fathers and loving husbands turn into maniacs, boyfriends and fiances wouldn't recognize their partners if she's the one that jumped out of the cake and into their laps (or was the girl shooting hard-boiled eggs out of her...well, you get the picture). Unless the bachelor party involves a day of golf, camping, or sequestering on a fishing boat, I was warned NOT to trust anything I heard, and to be very very wary.

This is the sort of situation that makes me want to go out and have sex with someone else. Get-back-at-him-for-going-to-a-sneak-attack-bachelor-party-and-doing-god-knows-what-sex.

Yes, yes, very small minded and petty. But please PLEASE spare me the whole trust speech. That's crap. And you know it. Put a man in any situation where he can't get caught and the object of the evening is to get drunk, whoop it up, and have a last hoorah as a single man, and booze, women, illicit behavior, and penetration of some sort will take place. Especially in a place where prostitution is legal, and they have a very casual, Amsterdam-type attitude towards it.

He heard the surprise in my voice (um, maybe because it was the sneak-attack bachelor party!?), and told me to call him every five minutes if I wanted to, you know, just to prove to me that he's trustworthy. Of course, I couldn't let him see how much this bothered me, so I laughed, and told him to go out and have a great time with the boys. I told him of course I'm not going to call because I don't want to interrupt him while he's out, and that if in the next few days, he has a minute in between the wedding festivities, to give me a call if he wants to chat.

And then I hung up, and went through a mental roster of men that would be available for a night out, you know, drinking, whooping it up, maybe a last hoorah. And quickly discarded the idea because I know I wouldn't have the guts to do anything, even if I wanted to.

I hate this about myself. I hate that something like a sneak-attack bachelor party can make me suddenly feel like the ground disappeared from under my feet. I don't understand the weakness, the insecurity, I don't know where it comes from, or why it's so overwhelming. I hate that he could hear the surprise and fear in my voice, even when I tried to cover it up. And I hate that he offered for me to call him "every five minutes" because it made me feel humiliated and small and patronized. "Aawww, don't wowy wittle girw, you pathetic little insecure girl, if it'll make your booboo hurt less, you can call me whenever you want..." Like he's taking pity on me even though a rational mind understands that he's just trying to alleviate my concerns by making himself available to me.

So now I have to make an adult decision: Do I act like a normal person and just let this go? Or do I act like a neurotic wack-job, and become withdrawn, and play the passive-aggressive get-both-of-you-nowhere-fast, shoulder-shrug, nothing's-wrong game?

I think I will attempt (I said attempt, I can't make any promises) to behave like an adult, and keep the passive-aggressive, nothing's-wrong shtick to a minimum.

Maybe behaving like an adult will enable me to actually have the semblance of an adult-ish relationship. That, and letting go of the woobie.

So what are we going to do today, Brain? Same thing we do everyday, Pinky. Plan to take over the world.

At what age is it no longer appropriate to go out with co-workers, get blindingly drunk, fall asleep on the train and miss your stop, wake up and stumble outside, find a cab, slobber your way up the steps to your apartment, strip naked in the doorway, trip over your clothes on the way to the bathroom, puke up things you ate last Tuesday, pass out naked on your bed, and wake up holding your keys and your pocketbook as if you were about to leave for the day.

Thirty you say?

Oh good.

Conversation by College JUNIORS, Yes, I said COLLEGE Juniors. Sober. And No, They're Not High Either.

"Hey, do the 15-trick again!"

"What 15-trick?"

"The one you did the other day. You know. Where you divided 45 by 15."

"45 divided by 15 is 3."

"Yeah...Wow. You're so smart."

"Oh my god."

This is the point when parents should consider selling their children into slave labor. The future of America might depend on it. And I have a feeling Darwin would approve.

Definitions

Boozerholic

adj. - a person who drinks large quantities of alcohol to the point of humiliation, without feeling remorse about it the next day.

Boozerholicism

n. - basing personal religion on the mistaken belief that worshipping alcohol in all its glory will save you from the misery that is the life you've created for yourself.

Crapolicism

n. - basing a world dominating religion on the bastard child of a horny Jewish middle eastern woman from ancient times, who subscribes to the adage, "the bigger the lie, the more convincing it is."

• ex: "I can't believe I had premarital sex and got pregnant! My parents are going to kill me......I know! I'll say God did it!"

Shoulder-Shrug OK

adj. - the reaction you have when your friends ask you about the guy you're dating, but aren't that excited about.

• ex.: "Hey, MLIGCS, how's that guy you're dating?"
  *Shoulder-shrug* "He's OK I guess."

Birthday Ode to My Not-Such-a-Baby Baby Sister

The news of your impending arrival made me realize that our parents were still having sex. Ew.
When you were born, I became the designated babysitter for you.
This situation blew.

There was actually a time, you were shorter than me.
Over the years, this has ceased to be.
Now, I have to look up in order to see.
This has invoked some jealousy.

You used to be a total pain.
From trying to kill you, I would have to refrain.
And you may have something to do with the fact that I'm no longer sane.

But having you in my life has been only a boon.
You are the one who calls me all day starting at noon.
Because of the laughter you invoke, everyone here thinks I'm a loon.
And I'm always hoping to hear from you soon.

As a baby I only viewed you as a pest,
As you got older, you finally gave me a rest.
And today, of my friends, you are the best.
Even though I have a bigger chest.

So Happy Birthday to my darling Spawn,
Without you, my day would have no dawn.
From a child to a woman you have undergone,
With a future of success and happiness to look on.

Paperwork

One of the problems with being Jewish is our obsession with personal resumes. Is the person you're dating good on paper? Is the person they want you to go out with good on paper?

Start with the all important number one question that should be asked and answered in the affirmative, before you pass Go, before you collect $200, Are they Jewish. Check.

You can then move on to:
Educated. Check.
- Ivy League. Secret bonus check.
Doctor or Lawyer. Check.
- Medical or law student. Possible future check once they pass the boards or the bar.
CPA, podiatrist or real estate broker. Half a check.
Writer, artist, or teacher. You lose a previously awarded check.
- Writer with published books and steady income, artist with paintings in galleries with steady income, teacher who happens to be independently wealthy - check reinstated.
Comes from a good family. Check.
Comes from a ridiculously wealthy family. Secret bonus check-check.
Is a good boy (translation - you'll be having sex in the missionary position for the rest of your life...May God have mercy on you). Check.
Is a good girl (translation - kiss blow-jobs goodbye..You might as well just kill yourself now). Check.

Usually, parents don't understand why people with equally good resumes who go through the interview process (i.e., dating) don't just get along, fall madly in love, and get married already.

The problem is the intangible that isn't accounted for. That spark that makes you want to sit with them on your couch all day watching movies, having sex, ordering pizza and ignoring all incoming calls all the while, feeling completely content and happy.

I met two different men on my trip to Greece this summer, one that happens to be pretty perfect on paper, one that is not. And of course, in typical fashion, I fall madly for the one that is not. Neither one lives anywhere near me, because really, there are over 2 million eligible men in New York and I've already dated 1,999,996 of them.

Bachelor Number One is Jewish (Check - here's your $200, you may proceed); educated, graduating first in his medical school class and receiving an award from the President of his country (Check. Check-check). Comes from an amazingly good family comprised of wealthy, educated professionals with medical degrees and/or PhD's (Women and men included) (Check, check). Extra-curricular activities include: deep sea diving in the Maldives, rock-climbing in the Alps, visiting the rain forests in Costa Rica, and heli-skiing in Canada. He has his own practice, is the youngest University Professor in his country, and is the youngest professional lecturer on his medical specialty. (He is invited to lecture anywhere from one to five times a month all over the world).

He is 5'11", blue eyes, blond hair, with a receding hairline, small bald spot, and an athletic build. And he dresses better than any man I have ever seen. Conversation with him is shallow, making any kind of emotional connection difficult, and the thought of having sex with him makes me shudder. Literally. But overall, he is a nice guy, with very honorable intentions.

Bachelor Number Two is NOT Jewish (GO TO JAIL. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200). Is an Engineer (HEY, where are you going?!), comes from a highly educated family comprised of professionals (doctors, lawyers, engineers - including ALL extended family) (Get back here, you don't have authority to move forward!), is independently wealthy (Wait a minute, did you say independently wealthy?), is NOT a good boy (Check for me!!! Yay!!!) and all we want to do is hang out doing nothing.

My poor mother, I felt so bad telling her. But she was surprisingly supportive. She just "wants me to be happy." She's betting Bachelor Number Two will go the way of most of my relationships, straight into the gutter. Crash and burn, baby. What she doesn't realize is that all those other relationships ended because the guys were good on paper. Now that there's someone not good on paper, he HAS to be the one I end up with. Any other scenario would just make too much sense.

Quote of the Day

I think you should follow your heart and not your head. You were never very smart anyway.

Pre-Holiday Prayer for Rosh-Hashana

Dear Lord, please give me the strength to be a good person and not fall prey to the nasty comments I will receive tonight from the women in my family.

Grant me the patience to not want to stab my mother in the neck when she, again, reminds me that I look terrible, and really should do something with my hair, or maybe buy a new outfit.

Let their evil words fall on deaf ears when they remind me that I’m still single, and almost 30, and I'm not as great as I think I am and should give the fat, older man at grandma's temple a chance.

Provide me with peace when the women comment on my need for plastic surgery, and ask why I don't buy myself brand name clothes instead of wearing regular clothes. Please Lord, allow me to hold my tongue and not tell them that I too would spend $1,500 on a handbag and $450 on shoes if I was a worthless shallow housewife who never did a real days work and instead mooched off my husband, while I lunched with my girlfriends, gave orders to the nanny and shopped all day.

Lord, make my countenance serene so that they do not see the bodily harm I will want to inflict upon them when they ask about my personal life, and try to set me up with men who are my "perfect match" until I discover their commitment/mommy/erectile-dysfunction/megalomania/financial/porn-addiction/drug-addiction/mental-incapacity/abusive issues that they've managed to hide from polite society but feel perfectly comfortable displaying to me within 15 minutes of our first meeting.

Grant me peace, oh Lord, to not commit murder or acts of reckless endangerment tonight and for the upcoming year to those you have so cunningly saddled me with as relatives.

May Your children rejoice in Your greatness oh Lord, and please, oh please, let me get through one damn holiday season unscathed and needing even more therapy.

Amen

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.