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

What, if any, is the appropriate response to the question, "How much do you love me?" (Besides the obvious retching, laughter, turning and walking away as calmly and quickly as possible, and of course, the party favorite, "I'm sorry, have we met?")

I mean, $79.99? Forty-three pounds? 88 gazillion miles? Because as of today, "I like you a lo'" said with the Jim Carey, Dumb and Dumber voice, is clearly NOT the right answer.

First of all, who the hell asks that kind of question?! The same kind of person that asks what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that if you ask me one more girl-oriented question, I'm going to cut your nuts off so that you fit the profile.

I don't know, "I love you so much that I'll try really hard not to fuck with you when you ask me that and make you feel even more insecure than I've apparently already made you feel." How about that?

Or, "I love you so much that I won't tell you that I'm posting this on my blog, since you don't read it anyway, in order to spare you the impending humiliation." Because I'm that kind of girl.

Okay, let's be honest, "I love you so much that I do get jealous when I see the pictures of all of your ex-girlfriends around the house. But then, I remember that I'm better looking than they are, and I get over it." That's love, right?

How about, "I love you so much that I'll let you keep asking me that question without being a bitch (to your face) and I'll try to answer you in a more sensitive and satisfying way." Yeah, that's the measure of love. Trying your best to make the person you're with feel good about themselves, and keeping your (low) opinion of them to yourself. And to everyone that reads your blog.

What's up with this love nonsense?

For some reason, my many relatives in Israel are strong supporters of my little romance here in Greece. They constantly encourage me to stay with the guy. The guy wants me to stay. He keeps asking. I like hearing him say it over and over again. I also like that I'm completely non-committal to his proposal. I feel it gives me the upper hand. I like the upper hand. If I can't have a decent drink in this god forsaken country, I'll take the upper hand instead. Beggars can't be choosers at this point.

But then staying would mean leaving New York, and my family and my very cute apartment. It goes without saying that of course it would be very difficult to leave that apartment. Family too, I guess, but I'm really attached to the apartment.

Anyway, the family in Israel keeps harping on this whole silly love thing. "But you love him, don't you?" They say over and over again. "Yes, of course I love him. He's really fantastic. A very special person. I'm very lucky to have found him." Blah blah fucking blah. "And he loves you? Didn't you say he wants to get married?" "Yes, he wants.....he wants to get m-m-m-married." "So what's the problem?! You love each other, he wants to get married, and your mother is a whopping nine hour plane ride away. It just doesn't get better than that."

I don't know what the problem is. But it seems, to me at least, that a woman at 30, who has put herself through school, owns her own apartment, her own car, is completely self-sufficient, has the educational background and experience to support herself with a very nice and comfortable income, doesn't give that sort of thing up for a guy. Does she?

I mean, I'm not a baby person (except for the ones I've dated) and I'm in no rush to pop one of those slimy things out of me. And I've already done the whole "I do till death do us part or until you become a raving wife-beating maniac" thing replete with the engagement ring you could see from space and the puffy wedding dress.

And love ebbs and flows. Like picking the petals off a flower. "I love him." "I want to do him bodily harm." "I love him." "I wonder if I could smother him with a pillow and say he died peacefully in his sleep." "I love him." "How bad could Greek prison really be."

Love is all well and good. But I often wonder, isn't it really just a chemical addiction? Is it really enough to make you act like a lunatic, change your entire life around. Go down a path you never dreamed or imagined? I know, I sound like a woman who has been burned one too many times and has come out of it rather bitter.

But you try dating in New York, and having the worst sex of your life, which lasted a very literal total of two-and-a-half minutes after the guy prematurely ejaculated four minutes earlier. AND he had the audacity to clean up afterward with your fluffy, giant, favorite bath-towel instead of a small washcloth, or WATER. Who uses a person's bath-towel for god's sake?! I mean really. Oh, and I have three words for you if you're reading this. Vi. A. Gra.

And then of course, with love must come trust. How utterly annoying. I don't have a trust issue. I totally trust anyone and everyone who has absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, feelings or finances. They have the deepest trust I am capable of feeling. Trust is clearly not a problem.

I mean, can I really live in a foreign country, in a foreign culture, with a man I love, and not have a proper drink for the rest of my life? That might be too much of a compromise. Cocktails are a way of life for one particular alcoholic New Yorker, let's not kid ourselves here.

And, like the three cardinal rules of real estate, (1. Location; 2. Location; 3. Location) there are the correlative three rules when dating a Jewish girl from New York: 1. Your finances; 2. Your parents' finances; 3. When your parents' finances will combine with your finances.

And, on top of everything else, I'd have to learn Greek. Did you know there's a tense here called genitive? Genitive. Sounds like genitalia, or vagina, or even genetics, if that's how your brain works. I don't even know what genitive means.

I guess this is too much thinking for a random afternoon. Maybe I'll go for a swim in the beach across the street from my house. Or maybe I'll go for a coffee at one of the many lovely coffee shops along the water down the street. God, it's so tough here now. I don't know how on earth I'm going to manage.

Culture Shmulture

There's something about going to the ballet, to watch one of the worlds most renown dancers, Sylvie Guillem, mesmerize the audience (and your boyfriend) with her amazing gracefulness and sweeping movements, in an ancient marble amphitheater, with the sun setting behing the stones, surrounded by diplomats and celebrities, and then falling, FALLING! on the steps as you leave, and practically taking out three little old ladies on your way down.

Why behave with dignity when I can just be myself.

N.B. - and NO, I wasn't even sauced up.

My Ears Might Actually Start Bleeding

I actually heard it. I heard words that a woman my age should never hear.

"I buy Playboy for the articles."

Yes, I'm sure you do. And you probably watch porn to learn filmmaking for your independent film project about the AIDS epidemic in Africa.

I literally laughed for five whole minutes. If you actually read Playboy for the articles, you might have learned that even surgically enhanced, airbrushed, cowboy boot wearing, but curiously nude otherwise women KNOW BETTER. Even if their turn-ons are long walks on the beach, giving blow-jobs and knitting.

I'm just saying.

The Meaning of True Love, Bitchass Style

"Hey baby, I just wanted to call and tell you, but wait, I don't want you to worry or anything, I'm totally OK and it's not a big deal, but I hit my head at work. Please, stay calm, it's just a little bump, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about AT ALL. I'm going to see a doctor now, but really, I want you not to worry."

"You hit your head?"

"Yes, but like I said, please, please, don't get upset. Don't worry. I promise you I'm fine."

"Upset?! Thank god! Maybe you knocked some sense into yourself! I'm going to finish my game of sudoku. I'll talk to you later."

Who do I have to fuck to get a decent drink around here?!

Apparently the Cradle of Civilization has yet to familiarize itself with my choice of drink. And I find this to be beyond irritating, especially when all I'm looking forward to is a nice, calming cocktail to get the evening started.

My drinks of choice are: A vodka martini (Kettle or Goose), up, dry, with olives. My other drink is Patron Silver on the rocks, with salt. Both drinks are so easy to make, that I'm sure even George Bush couldn't bungle it. I will of course, partake of the occasional mind-numbing, coma-inducing glass or twelve of wine, but I prefer to pass out from imbibing dangerous quantities of more substantial alcohol.

Unfortunately for me, not only do none of the bars or clubs I've frequented carry any combination of Kettle, Goose, or Patron, but they don't even seem to understand how to make a martini with their inferior vodka, Stoli.

The other night, I tried, vainly, to order a Stoli martini with olives. The waiter looked at me like I was the village idiot. "Olives?!" He demanded, with derision, as if I just asked him to serve me a dead cat with soy sauce. "Yes, OLIVES." I replied. "This is Greece isn't it? I can walk down the street and pick olives off a tree for Christ's sake. You don't have olives at the bar?" Obviously not. So instead, I try to order my martini with a twist. Don't even ask. He shakes his head at me in utter disappointment.

Suffice it to say I end up with a small tumbler, full of ice, with a shot of vodka, an obscenely liberal pour of lemon juice, and a perfectly round slice of lemon floating on top. NOT a martini. Not even a cousin of the martini. Not even a long lost relative of the martini. They don't even live in the same time zone.

I think it's some kind of conspiracy. The kind of conspiracy to mistreat tourists I would only expect of the French.

I'm not even going to comment on the dearth of tequila.

You might be wondering why I'm making such a big deal about the alcohol choices. Well, because I'm an alcoholic, and alcohol is very important to alcoholics. And I'm in a foreign country, where I don't speak the language, can't enjoy the company of my boyfriend's friends and their inside jokes, and really REALLY need alcohol to have fun. That's right. I SAID IT. I need alcohol to have fun. Sue me. So do you.

Luckily, my boyfriend is the best kind of guy, and fully supports all of my endeavors with full fervor and showed up last night with a gianormous bottle of Grey Goose. It's in the freezer right now, taunting me, waiting to be opened. I'm waiting until noon. I mean, I have to finish my coffee with Bailey's first

Cooking 101

Apparently, in Greece, you are not allowed to make, cook, prepare, or eat any food other than Greek food. Because for some reason, in Greece, Greek food is the only food on earth.

God forbid you have any machinations of making, say, chicken teriyaki. Because, if you DARE to dream, they will take your dreams and pulverize them into the fine rock-ridden dirt that lines their beaches.

The supermarket does not contain a dressing or marinade isle. You know, your usual sundry items and bottles embossed with images of Paul Newman. (Of course, the supermarket sells whole, frozen octopus. Obviously, because of the huge demand.) This is done on purpose, to prevent you from even imagining that there is such a thing as chicken teriyaki. Or barbecue chicken. Or buffalo chicken. If you don't marinade your meat or chicken in lemon juice, olive oil and/or oregano, you're fucked.

And let's be serious, how is a Jewish girl from New York going to make her own teriyaki sauce?! Yes, I can pass the bar. Barely. But cooking? Not my forte. I'm from the Land of Takeout. Also known as the Land of Ordering In. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have to learn how to actually cook. Which is ridiculous. It's taken me years to master drinking. Imagine the effort to learn how to cook?!

I mean, is there really a reason to complain?!

OK, so I know I'm in Greece for the summer, and there's really no cause WHATSOEVER to complain, but I have to lodge one little complaint. One, teeny tiny itty bitty one.

You see, being from America, and enjoying the beaches of NY, Miami, California, various islands in the Caribbean, and Tahiti and Bora Bora, I always thought the beaches of Greece would be comparable, if not even better. BUT, the beaches, at least the five or six I've been to already, are actually NOT better.

And I'm not talking about the eye-candy, or the views, or the music they play, or any of that. I'm talking about the fucking rocks that are on every beach. There is NO SAND. NO SAND. Just rocks. And not smooth, nice, delicate little beige and yellow rocks like you see in Monte Carlo, but big, mean, rough edged rocks. Everywhere.

The kind that like to dig into your feet and cause foot cramps. And although my boyfriend insists the beaches have sand, I don't consider light brown dirt to be sand. Sorry. That's NOT sand. Um, that's DIRT. Dirt with rocks.

And, the rocks are not only on the beach, but they're in the water. Not all the way in the water, but at least in the beginning, for about five meters. Or, fifteen feet. Fifteen feet of rocks before you hit smooth dirt. With sea grass growing out of it housing any number of undesirable sea life.

I'm a firm believer that, like the rest of the earth, humans should have full reign of the oceans. I think we should be the most dangerous things in the water, at least the water surrounding the coast. Not sea urchins, not jelly fish, not little fish that like to bite your ankles. WE should prevail.

So, when you try to walk into the water, you basically have to hold your arms out to balance yourself on the rocks, and you step gingerly and not very gracefully into the water until you hit dirt. Of course on your way, you invariably step on something that makes you jerk left or right, or lurch forward to avoid the pain. And then, once you've hit the sand/dirt, you then have to watch out for the grass.

This is why my boyfriend has resorted to tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying into the water until he hits dirt. And then, he unceremoniously dumps me in. Because there's only so much patience he has with me "Ouching!" and "Ooching!" my way into the water for ten minutes while everyone else has become a bobbing head on the horizon.

You know what, this brings me back to my basic assertion that with alcohol, anything is possible. Alcohol, like morphine, or crack, takes all forms of pain away. How the hell do you think girls can dance all night on tables in four inch stilettos without having had enough of the sauce to feel no pain?

Next beach, me and my old friend Jose Cuervo are going to go swimming together. And I think I'll be as agile and graceful as a gazelle loping in the woods, instead of looking like a porpoise trying to climb a flight of stairs.

Me and Jose are like the Wonder Twins. Together, we're invincible. If I live, I'll post about it.

So, Greece does NOT suck

There's something about meeting a significant other's parents that could make even the strongest of personality types puke the day of. I'm not implying that I would ever be reduced to such an undignified state of fear and uncertainty, but I can certainly see such an occurrence happening. Of course, not sleeping for over 48 hours straight and then eating a pork gyro, pork being the foulest of meats, and apparently the national favorite (and here I thought lamb, but what do dumb Americans know....) could also contribute.

It's not so much the meeting, as it is the horrible anticipation, the growing fear and alarm, that nervous pit in the bottom of your stomach, that slowly spreads to your limbs and causes your knees to knock together under your beautiful Tahari cocktail dress as you teeter on your stilettos while you are presented to a small, white haired, kind faced woman who speaks no English, and actually appears more afraid of you, than you of her. Kind of like when my mother used to try to impress upon me that the spider, 1 millionth my size, was probably quaking a tad more than I was upon our introduction and its inevitable encounter with the bottom of my shoe.

Not that I would ever liken a parent to an insect, more closely to Jabba the Hut. But I think I won her over. I do. No really. My hello was flawless, my smile, although somewhat wobbly, was sincere, as was my firm, but polite handshake.

And of course, the coup de gras, when the groom left the dance floor to single me out and drag me to the dance floor to display my inept ability to learn line dancing, my EL's mother actually stood up and took pictures of me. I personally think it was to have something to identify me to the hit man she hired, but nonetheless, it was a nice gesture. Of course, if I find a dart board in their living room with a startling resemblance to me, I won't take it personally.

It also appears, that in countries outside of America, lawyers have earned a certain modicum of respect. I guess in Europe lawyers are more trained to cover up the slime mark they leave in their wake. Or, maybe the level of ethics is different. Maybe they actually practice ethics here. Amazing.

Either way, Greece is a lovely country. I am slowly getting over my fear of venturing out on my own. Venturing out in a country where you look like the natives is somewhat daunting. Mainly because everyone expects you to speak the language. And when you stammer your apologies that actually, you don't speak any Greek, but rather English, and not British English, but the twangy American English, they look almost disappointed. They look at you as if you failed them. I think they think I'm Greek, but I haven't bothered to learn Greek in my native America. An insult of the greatest proportions, especially in a country that prides itself as being the "cradle of civilization." (Enough to make me puke again, but I'll refrain.)

But, I have managed, in the past week I've spent here, to learn the alphabet, and I've taught myself to read, at an amateur level to be sure, but certainly impressive for a weeks worth of hanging out. I may not know what the hell I'm reading, but by god, I won't be categorized as illiterate. NOT in the "cradle of civilization" of all places. (You'd think the cradle of civilization would eat something OTHER than pork all the time, but civlized must mean different things to different people).

The kitchen in my apartment is a Jewish girl's dream come true. There is no stove or oven. NO STOVE OR OVEN. Utterly fabulous. What's for dinner dear? RESERVATIONS. The ultimate bachelor-pad has backfired.

And there is a lovely strip of coffee shops and restaurants right by me. You know, to go, sit, read, have a coffee. Apparently, it's ok to sit and drink a coffee for two hours. This doesn't jive with my New York go get em mentality, but I will persevere to acclimate myself to this alien ideology. When in Rome and all that.....Ahh the travails of being on holiday for an undetermined period of time. I know, you all feel so sorry for me. Me too.....

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

So I'll be arriving in Greece on Saturday morning, and meeting my European Lover's parents on Saturday evening, at a wedding where my European Lover is the Best Man.

Good thing is, they don't speak any English. Bad thing is, they're going to judge me on my behavior instead. I don't think anyone is too keen on having a daughter-in-law who goes drink for drink with their son. Maybe I'll refrain, ok TRY to refrain, from dancing on any furniture at the reception.

I'll definitely refrain, ok ok TRY to refrain, from drinking too much as well.

My mother insists I wear something eye-catching and fancy. I'm thinking, simple black cocktail dress might throw them off long enough to think I'm a nice girl, at least as a first impression. I'll have lots of time to disabuse them of that notion later. They've got plenty of time to get to hate the real me, why ruin a perfectly good party.

I usually take this sort of thing in stride. It's not that big of a deal for me to meet a guy's parents. I always know the outcome anyway: Dad loves me, mom hates me. Same with siblings: Brothers love me, sisters want to see me get hit by a car. Repeatedly.

I'm not quite sure why it's always like that, but there seems to be something about me that's very off-putting to women who don't know me. I definitely don't have that problem with men. It's very easy for me to make male friends, hang out, chit chat it up, have a great time out. Maybe women sense that I don't have the patience to sit through "Girl Drama", a play of endless acts and costume changes, with worse billing than Cats.

The European Lover's brother likes me. He's quite charming actually and there are no sisters in the picture. Thank goodness. So, most likely, only one member of the family would like to see me on the bottom of the Mediterranean. And I don't think his mom is strong enough to hold me under water long enough for me to drown. I could probably take her.

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

Having been single, then married, then single, I've realized that both situations have equal suck-age factors. Especially after talking to my single and married friends.

My single friends are annoyed that they're single, lonely, sexually frustrated, sometimes hopeless about finding the ONE (I personally believe there are lots of ONE's depending on where you are in life, what you're looking for, how totally desperate you are and how low you're willing to go to not sleep alone on a regular basis...).

I have single friends who are knowingly dating the totally wrong guy, but keep doing it anyway, because they don't want to get back out there. Yes, when he's eight years younger, it amounts to pedophelia. Call me when the authorities catch up with you. I'll bail you out and defend you in court, we can use a temporary insanity defense. No, I'm not going to a keg party with you this weekend.

I have single friends who are desperately trying to dodge the marriage noose their mothers are chasing them with, but can't find one single, normal guy to have as a boyfriend. You know, someone who returns your calls on a regular basis, doesn't call you by the name of the girl he fucked last night, isn't on any kind of mood stabilizing medication. Just the basics.

Or yours truly. After having dated all the eligible single men on the East Coast, and refusing to adhere to the tenets of Manifest Destiny, because really, I may be desperate, but I'm not desperate enough to end up with a guy in one of the RED states or a fruit loop in California, I'm moving TO ANOTHER COUNTRY FOR A MAN. Textbook case of how NY dating is bad for your mental health.

My married friends have become disillusioned with their ONE. Can't stand him or her. Wonder if they made a mistake. Wonder if there's a way out, or a way to fix it. Eyes start to wander. "Meetings" are what married people now have. She tries to figure out how the hell she can explain how her panties got torn at the "Meeting" and why she has bruises on her knees when she gets home to her husband. He tells me his wife couldn't care less when he goes home drunk, smelling like perfume.

Sometimes my married friends just want to act like they're single, go out, get drunk, flirt. But there's a big difference between acting and being single.

My single friends need to understand that marriage is not the golden ring they've been raised to believe it is. There will come a point, very soon, when you're like, "Please, PLEASE, go out with the boys. For god's sake, GO, go ANYWHERE. I'll go to the ATM machine and get you $20's for the strip club. Just leave me alone for one night."

And my married friends, who keep asking me whether divorce is really an option, people, it's HARD OUT THERE. AND IT'S LONELY. The rules of dating have changed since you were single. And it's much much uglier.

Single life isn't all about parties and hot girls and hot guys and great vacations (although lets be honest, that's a big part of it...), and married life isn't all about love, and security and sex and togetherness. (That kind of made me throw up a little in my mouth).

Basically what I'm trying to say is, the grass isn't always greener. And if you think your life blows because you're single, I promise you I can find an equal number of married people who'll say the same thing. And if you think your life blows because you're trapped in marriage with a person you want to stab repeatedly with your child's crayons, take heart, it's hard to be single. It's even harder to be divorced.

So, to all of my dear friends who read this blog: SUCK IT UP YOU PUSSIES, IT COULD ALWAYS BE WORSE!

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

Dear Subconscious,

I don't understand why you feel it necessary to wake me up at various intervals throughout the night, either through nightmarish dreams of terrorists trying to shoot me and my friends at a black tie party, and only providing pool tables, (pool tables?!) as something to hide under (when everyone knows that a pool table doesn't provide even the slightest bit of protection against terrorist AK-47's! Bastard!), or by forcing me to dream of water and how desperately parched I am after having a couple of drinks with dinner, which invariably forces me to wake up and stumble incoherently into my kitchen to cure the worst case of dry mouth EVER, or by simply waking me up for no reason at all. Hey, why not wake up, it's 3:47 am already. Who needs to sleep? I NEED TO SLEEP! I. Need. To. Sleep.

And also, please stop making me dream about men I can't have. Or men I've dated. Really, that's not necessary at all. I don't need to encounter any of my ex's in Dream World. And I don't need to encounter them in ANY type of sexual situation. Really. And I also don't need to encounter former friends who are no longer friends because we had the friend break-up. Dream World is a dangerous place, stop making me bump into people I don't want to see. Hey, why not a little Pierce Brosnan action? What about John Stamos, he sleeps, he has dreams, why can't I bump into him?!

Really Subconscious, you're trying my patience. Although, I do have to thank you for the hot male prostitute I dreamt about last night, best oral sex I've gotten in a looooong time. At least my sex life in Dream World is improving. But my sleep isn't improving. Lying awake last night from 4:30 to 6:45 made coming to work painful.

Don't make me resort to drugs, like Ambien, or crystal meth. You won't like what happens. Now, as a compromise, I'm going to try some Tylenol PM. If you refuse to play nicely with the Tylenol, I swear crystal meth it is, young lady.

I hope this letter can bring us together to a more congenial understanding of our mutual needs. I need to sleep, you need to stop fucking with that.

All the best,
MLIGCS

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

So last night, we had a little dinner party at my friend's house. Just five girls, with four bottles of wine.

Eventually, it degenerated into phone calls to boys, who came over, who wanted to go out. I had a meeting at 9 today, and decided that going out at 11:30 on a random Tuesday night, with random boys I didn't know, wouldn't be responsible.

The boys being gentlemen, kept asking and trying to convince a couple of us who said no. "No, come, it will be great, my car is right downstairs, we'll have so much fun...blah blah blah." No really, I'd love to, but I can't, I have a meeting first thing. Thanks so much though.

We get downstairs, ready to split up, two girls going out, two girls going home.

AND THE CAR DOWNSTAIRS WAITING FOR THE GOING OUT CREW IS A FUCKING ROLLS ROYCE PHANTOM. WITH A DRIVER/BODYGUARD AT THE WHEEL. AND THE CAR IS FULL OF YOUNG, HANDSOME MEN, WAIVING US IN.

People, did you get that? A PHANTOM, full of GORGEOUS YOUNG MEN, trying to convince me and my girlfriend, to go out with them. And what do I do? Well, first, I salivate, and then, I force myself to turn away from the car and the men, and walk towards my friend's car.

Because in a couple of weeks, I'll be with my European Lover. And I'd like to think that I'm above that sort of thing, you know, hanging out with rich fancy people, just for the sake of being able to say I was in a Phantom full of gorgeous guys. I'm not that shallow.

This morning's first instant message: Dude, you missed out, club was awesome, we drank Crystal all night....

I'm a total idiot. An utter moron. I have no idea what I was thinking when I said no last night, but I am very clearly not well in the head. I might be in love with my European Lover. Only love makes you act like such a fucking tool. This love shit is messing up my game.

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

I HATE being told what to do. I especially hate it when someone asks me for a favor, and when it doesn't get done to their satisfaction, they give me attitude. It's a FAVOR. I don't OWE YOU ANYTHING.

Sometimes, I don't do the favor. Sometimes, I don't do it BECAUSE I HAVEN'T GOTTEN TO IT YET. Sometimes, it might be because I simply forgot.

But what really ticks me off is getting a snotty, obnoxious, holier-than-thou email when the favor hasn't been done:

"Link to Fundraiser For Kids

- did you not get that, or did you just ignore me? Again, I would be very appreciative if you could mention it in your blog. It is not for my ego, but for poor kids. "

ALRIGHT ALREADY!!!! I linked to your fundraiser. Happy?! Sorry I didn't expedite it to your satisfaction yesterday, when you FIRST told me about it. You had to wait an ENTIRE 24 hours for me to link it. I'll even link it HERE. And HERE. And what about HERE?!

And do NOT ever write me a nasty-gram like that again. Just because you're tall, and strong, and lean, and a dear friend of mine, doesn't mean I won't come to your apartment and KICK YOUR ASS.

By the way, this is really a great cause, and if you could donate even a little, it would go a long way.

Here's the link again: https://get-together.org/index.php?lc=bc28af6f750004729474ccbb403bd0ee

You've GOT to be kidding

I find it hilarious that the Turnip actually thinks I'm going to do work for him after his instrumental role in getting me fired. It's not my problem he has no idea how to work the files, or how to research, or how to analyze the contracts, or how to write the letter to the client, or how to count to 10, or how to draw inside the lines.

Maybe if he didn't spend the better part of his legal career writing briefs in crayon on the back of gravy stained place mats, he wouldn't need me now.

I've decided that in the 13 days I have left at the office, I will finish work only for colleagues I happen to like. Those TWO will not get fucked by me. Because that's just not nice. And I'm a nice girl.

I don't even get bothered by the subways anymore. I couldn't care less about the filth, or the bleak atmosphere. But I still hate the annoying tourists, so happy, with their dumb smiles and laughter. Shut up! It's morning rush hour. Yes, you're on the right god damned train to see the Statue of Liberty. For god's sake. And get out of my way when we get off the train. See the stairs? Make for the stairs, you retards, don't just stand there, looking around. There's nothing to see here! It's an underground subway station with leaking pipes. MOVE!

I hate Tourist Season. But I hate the Turnip even more. Maybe once he learns to write with a shiny number two pencil, he'll learn how to do his own work. Maybe.

Passover, Just Another Joyous Occasion Built for Torture

"Breaking and entering is illegal Mom."

"It's not breaking and entering when I have a key, kiddo."

So I get home last night, and look around. And I notice that things in my kitchen are not as they were when I left in the morning.

The last time my mother used her key to break and enter, I came home to the stench of "special" incense she had burned all over my apartment to ward off the evil eye.

This time? She took down my old mezuzahs, and hung up new ones. On all the doors. Why? Because the old ones weren't kosher. And that's why I was still single and in a job I hate. She figured by changing them, she would be able to change my luck, and maybe I wouldn't be single anymore. Maybe I would let go of my silly European Lover fantasies, and just make her dreams come true already.

Little did she know that while she was sneaking around my apartment trying to change my luck, I was busy GETTING FIRED. And getting fired has just facilitated an ability to spend even MORE time with my European Lover.

I haven't told her yet I got fired. But I think I'll tell her by thanking her for changing my luck in such a great way. Thanks Mom!!! Without you and your meddling, I might still be employed, and I would only have one measly week with my European Lover instead of an unlimited amount of time. You really DID change my luck! Mom? Mom? Don't pretend to pass out. I'm not falling for that one again.

MWUAHAHHAHAHA.

F.I.R.E.D.

I just got fired. Not laid off. Not let go. But fired. FIRED.

Fired from a job that provides me with the monetary rewards to pay a mortgage, own a car, pay back my school loans, take occasional vacations, and go out anytime, anywhere.

But then again, I was just fired from a job I LOATH. Fired from a job that keeps me awake on Sunday nights with anxiety. Fired from a job that requires every single ounce of strength I have to get out of bed in the mornings. Fired from a job where I do not get along with the partners I'm assigned to. Fired from a job that is too far from where I live. Fired from a job that has totally made me rethink my decision to become a lawyer.

The funniest part is what the partner said when he fired me, "We need to separate from each other. Things just aren't working out. I'm very sorry. You have 30 days." I was like, am I getting fired, or are you breaking up with me?

I didn't say anything, besides, "Ok" "Fine" "Not a problem." I know why I was fired, and I wasn't going to argue. If you don't get along with the specific people you work for, then it's just a matter of time. What can I say, my personality didn't suit theirs, probably because I have one.

The best part is that on Friday, I requested and was approved for vacation time and I bought a ticket right away to see my European Lover in 30 days. So now, my one week vacation has become an open ended ticket, because I don't have a job to come back to. (Silver lining people - island hopping in Greece in May is NOT a bad way to go....)

My European Lover wants me to stay with him. Permanently. He's said some weird things that I don't know how to react to, things that start with "W" and end in "ife", "M" and "arry", and maybe an "Us" in there somewhere, I don't know. Oh, did I mention that life with him would be idyllic? Being financially independent at 30 does that for people, I guess.

Ah, decisions decisions.....

Just a Typical Night Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alcoholism

One lemon drop shot, check.

Two glasses of straight vodka, check.

Three bottles of hot sake, check.

Crawl into work at 11, check.

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