Office Stalker Quotes of the Day - Weekly Wrap Up

Monday
Am I ever going to see your boobs?!

I love anal. I bet I could make you love anal too.

Tuesday
You know, you just have to say the word, and you could be having sex with ME in three minutes.

Come on, just give me a little peek….

Wanna touch my muscle? Come on, touch it.

Wednesday
You know, I actually feel really really sorry for you that you'll never experience the mind-blowing, life altering sex you could have with me. But I guess I HAVE to believe you when you say you're in love with someone else.

Thursday
This girl I went out with sent me a text. She's really into me, but I'm just not interested, so I told her I'm in dating mode and not relationship mode. She became VERY upset. Doing the right thing is so hard. Women misinterpret my charm and warmth etc (stuff I can't write in an email …) they fall for me. I feel awful about it.

Friday
Just one boob? How about only the nipple?

Chag Same'ach - Or - Where can I hide out until this is all over

It's that time of year again. It's the Jewish Holiday Season. Replete with all the familiar and endearing family dysfunction it brings.

It used to be that celebrating Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was about family, new beginnings and resolutions, plans for an even better and more fulfilling life.

At some point all the spiritual meaning behind the holiday was replaced with something considered far more important: My ability to land a husband.

The new focus of the holiday was on what to wear to Temple, which Temple service to attend, to make sure to go to the one where all the young people are, and not to forget to make hair and nail appointments prior.

A holiday meant to bring a fresh start, to help us grow as people, to force us to reflect on who we were and who we want to become, had turned into an auction. Temple was no longer a place for prayer and communing with god, it was a place where prime grade A beef was for sale to the highest bidder. And I was the cow. Actually, not just me, but all of my female friends. We were a herd.

Now, I haven't been to Temple since I got married and never went after my divorce. But my mother is on a kick to get me back there. She thinks I might meet someone. I keep telling her I have someone. She says he doesn't count, because he's so far away. I told her that I'm moving there soon. She told me that as long as I'm not there yet, everything is fair game. Including meeting someone HERE, in Temple.

I can't argue with Jewish Mother Logic. And I've never even met anyone at Temple. Never. Not once. Why my mother thinks a miracle will happen this year, I don't know.

I'll outmaneuver her. There's so much fresh meat on the market right now, that parading old, used cow will only be humiliating. And anyway, someone's already bought this cow, he's just waiting for shipment.

I only think I live alone

So there was an insect in my bedroom last night. Not a regular bug. Not a little baby bug that you could confuse with a piece of lint, until it starts to move. No. Not like that.

More like a bug that survived Chernobyl. It might have been smoking a cigarette and flipping channels from my bed when I walked in. Something that size owes me rent.

Now, I'm not afraid of mice, or snakes, or rats, or lizards or anything of that type. But I am deathly afraid of insects.

And, I don't kill bugs. First, because I'm afraid to get close enough to do the killing. Who knows, it might jump onto my face, crawl up my nose, and embed itself in my brain, laying eggs and having dinner parties. Second, because I try to avoid the crunch they make when you kill them. Third, because I'm not a fan of the carnage-clean-up. Bug body parts could go everywhere, legs, antennae, a wing or something equally ridiculous could end up inside one of my shoes. Just the IDEA of that makes my head hurt.

Since I live alone, I had to devise a way to deal with this. So, my brilliant McGyver mind has come up with the most genius of plans. I TRAP the bug under a bowl. Preferably clear tupperwear. Hopefully tossing with aim accurate enough from four feet away to land right on top of it. And then, I just wait until it starves to death. I'll leave that bowl there for weeks if I have to. I don't care.

Now I say clear tupperwear because there have been times when I've trapped a bug under something opaque, and when, three weeks later I went to remove the bowl and the carcass, I found nothing NOTHING underneath. Oh. My. God. That just means it's waiting somewhere in a dark recess of my apartment to do the crawl up my nose, eggs, dinner party thing.

I know it sounds cruel to starve an insect to death, especially an insect whose size requires it travel with a valid passport, but then, it's also cruel to stab it with my stiletto. And really, why get bug insides on my pretty stilettos? So now, I have a pet. A pet on death row. I think I'll call him Stanley.

Technology IS your friend

My office stalker was really mad the other day because his date cancelled on him the day of, via email. He got all persnickety and sent her a nasty-gram because he felt he had to "stand up" for himself against her "rude behavior. She should have at least had the courtesy to call."

They had only been on one date and she wasn't canceling for some esoteric, non-informative (i.e., she found something better to do) reason. She just had to work late.

I told him to stop getting his panties in a bunch, he was acting like a Sheila, especially since he was dating three other women. She doesn't owe him anything after one date. He was just bent because he spent $100 to try and impress her.

If it's perfectly ok to set up a date via email (which it is), then it's perfectly ok to cancel via email. People break dates all the time that way. Hell, people actually break-up using text messages. "things rnt wrkn out good luck." "ur not 4 me, peace."

People aren't brave. We're a bunch of candy-ass pansies. If I can avoid talking to a person about breaking a date, OF COURSE I'm going to use whatever other means I have. I don't want to hear disappointment, I don't want to open myself up to questions, or have him try and persuade me to go out, or even worse, deal with criticism or abuse he might hurl my way.

I once called a guy to break a date the day before. His head almost exploded. "I can't believe you would behave this way. How could you be so rude to break a date the day before we're supposed to go out. Shame on you."

I was like, dude, put down the crack pipe. WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET.

You + expectations ≠ reasonable.

I've even gone so far as to blatantly ignore calls from guys I went out with that are calling for another date. Instead, I send a simple, "It was nice meeting you, but I don't think we're a good match" fuck-off email. I don't want to answer that phone. I don't have the balls to tell a guy I don't want to see him again to his face, or ear, as it were.

Men don't have to deal with this. If they go out with a girl they don't want to see again, they just don't call. So simple. It's us girls that have to do the 'let him down easy if he's interested' chiki-chiki boom avoidance dance.

I would never dream of saying something to a guy who breaks a date with me, besides, "Okay, not a problem." There's no chance I'm going to go out of my way to send him a nasty-gram, or call him and show him I'm upset. That's the kind of humiliation you reserve for when alcohol and heavy narcotics can be blamed. I don't understand people, like my office stalker, who feel it's within their right to be rude or nasty because of the means or timing someone used to break a date. Have some pride, man.

Once, a guy I really liked broke our second date half an hour before we were supposed to meet. Exactly one hour after I just spent tons of money on a new outfit. He never called me again. Two days later I saw him arm-in-arm with another woman walking down the street.

I never said anything to him about his mode of date-break. Anything I could have said wouldn't have made him feel bad, and would have only served to make me look desperate and somewhat mentally unstable. And if I wanted him to know I was mentally unstable, I would just cut to the chase and show him my blog.

Rejection is one thing. But sending nasty emails, or text messages or calling the person and bawling them out because they cancel a date in a way you don't like, only reaffirms their initial conclusion that you are not someone they want to go out with. You can’t force people to behave the way you want. And trying to impress your ideas of proper behavior on someone else only stinks of improper behavior on your part anyway.

Of course, my office stalker doesn't get this. In order to make himself feel better after he sent her the nasty-gram and left the how-dare-you-phone-message, he came into my office and asked me to sit on his lap. And call him Daddy. Clearly his indignation at being treated improperly is teaching him fundamental life lessons.

Evolution

So, my office stalker and I are slowly but surely leaving the harassing, oh my god I need a shower after what he just said relationship and are entering much friendlier ground.

At first, when I told him I'm in a relationship, he really didn't seem to care and couldn't understand how I wasn't feeling this "connection" between us. He kept trying to convince me that something is "there" and I'm just too shy to admit my true feelings.

He would also try to stand uncomfortably close to me, with the obvious purpose of having some part of his body touch some part of my body, but still pretend that it was an accident.

So I basically told him that if the world were flooded in urine, and he was the last person alive hanging on to the last standing tree, I wouldn't touch him in order to save myself from drowning. He's slowly getting it.

The thing is, he doesn't really want me. He just wants what he wants, and he's peeved he's not getting immediate satisfaction. He's currently dating at least four women and meets new women everyday (internet dating sites - not like shooting fish in a barrel, more like nuking fish in a barrel).

He tells me stories about the girls he meets and dates. I know he's not lying because everything sounds suspiciously similar to my own painful internet dating experiences, except this time, I'm seeing it from the male perspective. Which, I must say, is information I really could have used WHEN I WAS GETTING PLAYED.

Once in a while, in the middle of his date rotation recap of women for the weekend, "Stacy on Friday at 8, Judy at 10, Melanie on Saturday for coffee, Jessica for dinner, and a brunch with Amy on Sunday....." he'll stop, and look at me intently, and exclaim, "How can you possibly not want me?"

To which I can only respond, "I don't know, but you're getting harder and harder to resist."

Enlightenment

We all have a mental checklist of what we want in a partner. The problem is, when we actually find that person, they don't necessarily fit into that checklist.

I had a really great friend in law school. She was a fantastic girl, very bright, very fun, very cool. She was also, by self-admission, not a very "nice" girl. She had a baby at 16 that she gave up for adoption, and had some loose morals about sex. To the point where most of our male friends likened an experience with her to tossing a hot dog down a hallway, or giving a whale a tic-tac. You get my drift.

She ended up getting married to a devout Christian man, who at the age of 26 or 27 was a virgin until their wedding night. Who would have thought that the girl "who might as well charge for it" would marry a virgin.

That's the problem. God has a sicker sense of humor than any of us. I wouldn't date a man who lived in New Jersey because I considered him locationally challenged. Well, hardy fucking har har, I manage to find someone ON A DIFFERENT CONTINENT. And not only that, but my list, you know the one where he has to be Jewish, and older, and fit perfectly with my family?

Yeah, not so much. Why do I even bother. My guy might as well be a fucking alien at this point, he's so far away from my list. I didn't know I lived in Demento World, but I should have.

But I'm still very lucky to find him. Well, actually, I'm not sure there's anyone left for me to date....

But in all honesty, sometimes, the criteria we use to find happiness are the very things that actually keep us from finding happiness. So I'm trying to learn to readjust my vision, and who knows? This relationship might last five minutes longer than my marriage. A whole six minutes people!!!! That's progress.

Things even your best friend shouldn't know about you

I know that if I ever lost my ipod, I would be too ashamed to ever try and get it back.

Because the person who found it would know I not only listen to Air Supply, Wham, Bon Jovi and Neil Diamond, but I also might have a song OR FIVE by Barry Manilow.

I may not admit this to people who actually know me, but Barry ROCKS!!!!

Babies R NOT Us

There's a guy at my office whose wife just had a baby. He stands outside my office, everyday, talking to the secretaries, everyday, about his baby, everyday.

If I could, I would stab him in the eye with a letter opener. It's one thing to be a proud father, it's another thing to assume anyone gives more than a five minute shit that you just had a baby.

Your wife has not achieved some amazing feat. Your child probably has nothing to do with the Second Coming. The fact that the baby cries and sleeps DOES NOT MAKE IT REMARKABLE, and, IT DOES NOT MAKE YOUR STORIES INTERESTING.

The eight billion pictures you pull out today are no different than the eight billion you pulled out yesterday, save for the yellow bunny blanket. Here's a hint. Adults don't give a fuck about yellow bunny blankets unless someone is either trying to suffocate them with one, or shove it up their asses without invitation.

I don't understand people who offer you information about their children when all you were trying to do was be polite by asking how the baby is. This should not be perceived as an invitation to present a dissertation on baby formula.

And you know what else he does? Whenever one of the secretaries dares to try and participate in the conversation, or tell her own story, he impatiently listens, and then says, "Well. As I was saying...."

People need to understand that if their children aren't remarkably interesting (like my friend Kiki's) then no one honestly and truly cares about them. If I haven't asked to see baby pictures, Don't. Show. Them. To. Me. I won't pretend to be interested.

If I ask any person how they're doing, the usual answer is a simple "fine," or "great," or "ok" because that person knows that I'm asking out of politeness. And he in turn, responds out of politeness, knowing that I really don't want or need any more information. If he started yammering about his plumbing problems or the fact that his wife is screwing her boss, that just creates an uncomfortable social situation where one is sharing too much.

Same rule applies to babies. There's no exception in the social rules of interaction, carving out a niche for babies. No ear infection stories, no aversions to baby powder, not even one iota about rashes. "Fine," "great" or "ok" are the acceptable responses. Anything more? I DON'T CARE. Neither does anyone else. Get over it.

Gamophobia

I recently read a book admonishing women who have been proposed to more than twice of being careless. I thought about it, since I happen to fall into that category, and wondered whether I was really careless, or just someone who likes to see how far she can get the guy to commit, before she has to extricate herself from a relationship she knows she doesn't want to be in for the rest of her life.

My first boyfriend, whom I loved madly, didn't really propose so much as capitulate to my incessant pressure. Luckily for both of us, he conveniently forgot the entire episode.

A few boyfriends later, I was proposed to again. But we didn't get along very well, and I ended up breaking one of his teeth with my killer aim. He blackmailed me to stay with him, threatening to press charges for assault and battery if I tried to leave. That was a charming relationship that I look back on quite fondly.

There was the boyfriend who was nice, fun, loving, Jewish...and poor. I got thrown out of the house for dating him. And I vaguely recall my mother threatening that if I didn't leave him, she would make my life so miserable, that when I cried (which she guaranteed she would make me do), I would cry blood instead of tears.

I called him, distraught, to break up. I didn't know he was planning on proposing in only a few days, on the 4th of July during the fireworks. But since I was adamant we had to break up because our Jedi training hadn't fully prepared us to fight the forces of Satan, he ended up asking over the phone. Needless to say, family pressure forced us to split months later.

Then, my ex-husband, who proposed on my friend's boat. He used a note in a bottle that he'd hidden in a bathing suit pocket and pulled out as he was coming out of the water. We celebrated all day on the boat, and all night with friends. It was a halcyon day. Really, just the beginning of the end.

And now, my Greek boyf. He didn't use the M word, but asked in what amounted to as a proposal. He knew better than to use the M word; he knew I wouldn't respond positively. I also don't think his mouth is capable of forming the M word and he feared his vocal chords could cramp and choke him to death.

I said, "How about a year? If we're both still alive, and neither one incarcerated or in a mental institution, we'll take it from there."

Love, is about baby steps. Giant leaps can leave you careening off the side of a cliff and splattered on the rocks below. Bob knows what he's talking about.

Things that give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside

Somehow, after practicing law for seven years, I seem to think that "Are you wearing a thong?" is not an appropriate question my office stalker should be asking me.

"Wow, before I was kind of on the fence, but now? Now I really want you."

And yet, even more positive reinforcement

What kind of man asks, "What does your pussy feel like?"

I'll tell you. The kind of man I get to meet while I'm out having a casual drink with a coworker. The man who happens to be a Jewish attorney that would make my mother's panties wet if she knew I met him.

Um, Olympic, I'd like a one-way ticket to heaven please.

Six degrees my ass. Try TWO degrees in a city of millions

You know you've dated everyone in New York when the "hot guy from California that moved down the hall" you've been hearing about for weeks from your good friend is a guy you went out with from JDate a year earlier. What are the chances you ask? PRETTY HIGH.

Just the kind of positive reinforcement a girl needs every once in a while

I don't understand myself. I continuously make the SAME MISTAKES over and over. I KNOW better than to be friendly. I do. No really. I'm a New Yorker. We're trained very early on about these things.

And yet, today, at the coffee station in my new office, at my new temp job, I was polite to the guy who introduced himself to me. I actually had a brief, "oh how long have you worked here, I just started" bullshit conversation.

I met him at around 3:45. I have received 17 (that's seven TEEN) emails from him since then. It's now 6:45. On the same day. He stopped by my office 4 (FOUR) times. Told me I smell really great twice (TWICE). Asked me out for drinks once (ALREADY). AND I JUST RECEIVED THE 18TH AND 19TH EMAILS AS I WRITE THIS.

You know, for the past few days, I've been having a really hard time with my decision to go back to Greece to be with my boyf. I've been plagued with self-doubt. I've asked myself over and over whether I've really given it a chance here in New York, dating about 100 guys in a little over year. I keep thinking, maybe there really is someone here for me that I can love the way I love my boyf, thereby circumventing the need to move to another continent.

But apparently, when you "smell really great" the way I do, that's just code for "your pheromones attract freaks, psychopaths and stalkers. Oh My."

Sometimes you need a little push in the right direction. Fate has decided to give me a giant, full-bodied, up-against-the-railings, your-face-smashed-against-the-glass, hockey-check instead. Maybe Fate thinks I'm a little slow. I just might be. But thanks, got the message. LOUD AND CLEAR.

But of course, Fate won't make him go away. Bitch.

Say Cheese!!!

Ex-girlfriend paraphernalia in the vicinity of a current girlfriend is unnecessary in the most extreme definition of the word. More aptly, it is generally totally and wholly unwarranted and it would be in any man’s best interest and personal, physical safety, to move said items to a minimum of a ten-mile radius of his current girlfriend.

Might I recommend a box stored in a parent’s basement, or a mother’s attic. Somewhere in a galaxy far far away.

Items that generally cause the most damage: Pictures. Get rid of them. No, I’m not suggesting a bonfire, I’m simply suggesting removing pictures from frames, maybe putting them away, keeping them in a place where a current girlfriend won’t accidentally (or not so accidentally, let’s be honest here ladies) come across them. If the pictures are on a computer, and a guy is so loath to part with his past memories, might I suggest maybe burning those pictures to a nice little CD, and then deleting them from the computer.

It’s not that we girls are stupid. We know there have been others before us. What we don’t need to know is how cute the two of you looked together on your trip to some lovely tropical island, or how well she fills out a bikini, or how shiny her hair is, or how romantic the two of you look kissing each other on a bridge surrounded by snow-capped mountains.

Those are the kinds of images that burn themselves into a woman’s brain. And stay there. And then creep up on her when she finds herself in a setting with her boyfriend that looks suspiciously like one of the pictures she accidentally (or not so accidentally) came across. And then, the guy’s in trouble.

Because one thing women want (and I’m not going to speak about what men want, because if I knew, we wouldn’t be reading this blog) is to FEEL THAT THEY ARE SPECIAL. And in order for a woman to feel that she’s special, she needs to feel that the things you do together, the feelings you share for each other, the experiences you have are UNIQUE to the two of you. She doesn’t want to feel that her boyfriend has been there and done that with others, and now, it’s simply her turn on the same ride he’s been on all this time.

After my divorce, I decided to try and spare myself the agony, and now, whenever I date someone, I ask him to please not show me any pictures of his ex’s. I don’t need to put a face to the stories I’m sure I’ll unwillingly hear. (I’m on a need to know basis, and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing about an ex that I need to know.) I know they’re out there, but that doesn’t mean I need to come face-to-face with them, as it were.

Of course, this doesn’t always work. My boyfriend decided to show me some pictures, and before he did, I specifically asked if any of his ex’s would be in the one foot tall stack. “Nooooo. Of course not. I remember what you told me.” Oh good.

And then, we suddenly come across some pictures that didn’t look quite right to me. I got the wrong vibe.

“Is that your girlfriend?”

“No, she’s just a friend.”

“Are you sure that she’s not a girlfriend? You guys look mighty chummy in these couple of pictures.”

“No, no. She’s just a friend. I play wrestle with all of my female friends.”

Um. Yeah. Until I not so accidentally came across some other pictures which clearly CLEARLY indicated that my current boyfriend and this girl dated.

“I thought you said that girl wasn’t your girlfriend, and that she was just a friend. But I saw your other pictures with her, and I’m pretty sure the two of you dated.”

“Um, well, the thing is, we did date. But we dated before the pictures you saw were taken. And then we were friends. So you see, she really was just a friend.”

“Uh huh. And did you date after the so-called friend pictures were taken?”

“Uh, I, uh…..well, I, I….yes. Yes. We dated before and after the pictures you saw. BUT, we were only friends at the time the pictures you saw were taken. So you see, I didn’t lie to you. We were friends, and I showed you pictures of a friend. NOT a girlfriend. She was my girlfriend before and after. But not DURING. Therefore, I didn’t show you pictures of an ex.” (I’m sure he didn’t go to law school, but I gotta admit, even I was impressed with his nerve.)

Needless to say, what I did in response to that ridiculous statement was NOTHING compared to what I did to my ex-husband when I found old pictures he had kept of him and an old girlfriend having sex. Penetration and all. It’s very disconcerting to see the penis you’re married to actually inside someone else. It’s also pretty unnecessary as far as marital experiences go.

So, to all of you who’ve been reading this and thinking that I’m writing from some pathetic, insecure, jealous perspective, you might be right. To an extent. But I’m also writing from the perspective that sometimes, it’s better to try and spare someone’s feelings. Especially if you care about them and it’s at no real loss to you. Of course, the EXACT OPPOSITE applies if you feel like being vengeful and manipulative. Not that I have cause to be familiar with that type of behavior. At all. Really.

The Not-So-Prodigal Daughter's Return

So I've returned from Heaven, aka, three months in Greece with my boyf. And of course I'm lucky enough to be re-experiencing the dysfunctional psychosis deeply embedded in my family's gene pool.

Part of the family is happy for me for having found someone; part of the family looks at me as if I'm re-eating food I just threw up on the floor; and part of the family is so mad that their heads are ready to explode off their necks.

There are those that have been disillusioned, and are very unhappy about it. They thought my Greek boyf was Jewish, so that when I returned, they were ready to give me the, "As long as you love each other, get along, and want to be together, it doesn't matter where you live. You have to build your own life, even if it's in Greece."

But the minute they found out he isn't Jewish, suddenly the mantra became, "You're making the biggest mistake of your life. You will regret this for the rest of your life. Your life will be over." I tried to make them understand that I don't care about religion, that I don't even believe in god, and therefore, if their advice is to go if the guy is Jewish, then their advice should be the same if I don't care about religion. They don't see it that way. Remarkably.

Somehow, the only thing that resonates in the talks I have with my family is the constant reference to MY LIFE. That's right. It's my life. And therefore, I have the right to muck it up as much as I like. Muck, muck muckety muck.

So far, I've screwed up my life by constantly keeping others in mind when I made a decision to do something. "Would my family approve of this guy? Does he make enough money so that I can keep up with my friends and not shame my family? Is my law firm impressive enough? Are my clothes nice enough; is my figure nice enough; do I look good enough to keep anyone from making plastic surgery suggestions at the dinner table?"

And now, I don't really care. I would rather fuck up my life based on my own mistakes, rather than fucking it up based on the opinion of others.

What's the worst that could happen? We break up? We hate each other? The police need to get involved? Yeah, like I'm not used to that.

Truth In Advertising

My hotel brochure from Santorini.....the view (which includes my hotel, if you look to the left) is from a nearby restaurant.....my trip, does NOT suck.

Are you LOOKING for a fight?

"Can you imagine how hard it is to be a lifeguard? I could never do it."

"What are you talking about?! There are no waves, no undertow, no nothing here in Greece. The seas are perfectly calm all the time. Most beaches don't even have lifeguards because there's no point."

"Yes, but if I was a lifeguard, I would have to keep my eyes on the water at all times. Look at all the half naked girls I'd end up ignoring. There's just no way."

"You mean to tell me that you couldn't be a lifeguard because it would interfere with your ability to look at girls in bathing suits?"

"Girl watching is a way of life for me. I mean, uh, I only look when you're not around. I mean, I have eyes only for you when you're with me. What I'm trying to say, is that, well, I only look. And looking does no harm. Right? Huh? What do you think? Is that ok? "

"Waiter, bring me another Corona, and a hot poker."

My Babysitting Rates Have Gone Up

Why is it that every time I get into a relationship, I end up feeling like I've adopted a spoiled, selfish, demanding child instead.

I'm not in the adoption business. I don't even like kids. I'm not the Big Sister type. My time with a Little Sister would involve martinis, cigarettes, and attempts at not falling down in public. These are not things for unseasoned children. And I'm not into training future degenerates. I don't have the patience to break down good values and sensibility.

But why do men bear an uncanny resemblance to the child I see in the supermarket throwing a tantrum because mommy won't get him the sugar-riddled sociopath-inducing behavior cereal he wants. I've always wanted to go up to those mothers, and tell them that their child belongs in a cage, and should be poked every once in while with a cattle prod. And it wouldn't hurt to use the cattle prod on themselves either, for producing an unruly, difficult child that now society has to put up with, and eventually jail due to any number of unspeakable crimes he will most likely commit. Thanks to the disgusting cereal he's hooked on and her bad parenting skills, her darling little five-year old has no shame in throwing himself on the floor, and pounding his fists into the grimy supermarket floor just to get his way. Way to go lady!

So anyway, there seems to be a definite parallel in behavior between grown men and five year old boys. And it's starting to grate on my nerves. There are only so many tantrums I'm willing to put up with. And yelling? Yelling?! No one yells at me. NO ONE. My own mother is afraid of my shadow, and there are men that actually think they can raise their voice to me. It's too incredible to get mad at. I don't countenance yelling. And I don't tolerate tantrums.

And yet every man I've ever encountered, has exhibited these traits in one form or another. Maybe I've been looking for something that doesn't exist: a relationship with an adult male. Can't play the game when no one qualifies for the other team.

I think it's a matter of perspective. No, it's not. It's an objective standard. I've decided. Children are the most selfish people on earth. Always thinking about themselves, wanting you to foot the bill, and feed them, and buy them stupid clothes they're going to outgrow in a few months anyway. They should wear clothes that are three years too big in size. This way, mommy saves time shopping, and has more money for important things, like vodka. Men are basically small children trapped in big, lumbering, sometimes unnecessarily hairy bodies. They too are unreasonably selfish. Give me love, give me attention, give me my way or I'll yell and cry. Oh please. Take a pill and calm the fuck down. Here, have one of mine for god's sake. And shut it, before I get my own cattle prod.

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.