Ride me Big....Sheldon

I was having a conversation the other day with a male friend of mine about dirty talk. He claimed to be too embarrassed to dirty talk in bed because he thought that would only open him up to ridicule.

I asked what he meant by that, to which he succinctly replied, "Women talk to each other. And laugh at us. And I’m not going to be that guy."

And I found that odd. Of course women talk and laugh at men and the various foibles they go through in the bedroom. Let’s be serious here.

Men talk to each other. Not necessarily to laugh at the girl, but you know, in that macho wacho, "Yeah, I fucked her good" caveman speak they have. Men talk about women in a way that bolsters their virility, creating a story that highlights their prowess.

But I think in reality, women will only ridicule a guy if she’s not really that interested in him, no matter what he does. For example, if he takes her to a fancy restaurant on the first date, she’ll think he’s trying too hard and call him a loser. But if she really likes him, she’ll tell her friends he's awesome.

So if a girl is having sex with a guy she’s not emotionally attached to, (and yes, it’s true, women DO have casual sex) she might laugh at him a little. Ok, fine, she’ll destroy him and make him the butt of all her inside jokes with her friends and he’ll forever be known as The Freaky Dirty Talking Guy, or the Guy That Wore a Diaper, or the Hey Let’s Invite Fido in to Lick Peanut Butter Off My Balls While We Screw Guy.

But on the flip side, if she does like him, he could probably do no wrong in the bedroom. I think it’s more a matter of the feelings two people have for each other rather than the actual actions that go on in the bedroom that determine a woman’s loose lips.

Unless of course the guy wants to talk dirty. I mean, wearing a diaper or having a dog lick your balls during sex is one thing, but dirty talk? That guy clearly has some serious issues.

BFs 4 Eva'

So I managed another foray out into Athens in the desperate attempt to make some friends. I joined a group of expats on Yahoo who actually go out and DO things. And by DO things I mean they get drunk and eat Thai food. A match made in heaven.

So I show up to the local Hard Rock on Saturday night, with my boyfriend in tow, because “God knows who these people are!!!!” and “It sounds to me like it’s just a group to facilitate casual sex!!!”

Turns out the group is mainly comprised of English people. Now, I don’t know too many English, but I’ve always been a fan. I mean why not? Great accents, razor sharp humor, some good movies (Love Actually). Hey, let’s all be friends!

From what I've seen of the English in New York, they're usually drinking it up, falling all over the place, singing for no particular reason, and basically doing anything they feel like. Pretty much my kind of people.

Apparently, the English are not fans. Oh no, not fans of the Yippee Ka-yey Americanos. Nope.

“Ohhhhhhh, you’re American? Let me guess, New York?”

You know, said with that condescending Thurston Howell III clenched-tooth underbite. The whole “Muffy, dahling, how on earth are we going to get off this island? And where are my bloody cucumber sandwiches?!”

“So, what do you do here?”

“Well, right now I’m a desperate housegirlfriend, but I’m looking for a job and some Greek lessons.”

“Oh, how nice for you to have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do all day. I think I know some American girls who live in your town and also do nothing all day. I should introduce you, it would seem you have a lot in common.”

“Wow, so charm school is required in England, huh? Valedictorian, were you?”

“Yes, well most Greek lessons are at night, because the people that come here generally have to work during the day. Not that you have that problem. But I’m sure you’ll find something. The University offers classes, and it’s not that expensive, although from the looks of it, money doesn’t seem to be an issue for you or your boyfriend.”

“I think you and I should exchange Best-Friend charms, because really, I haven’t felt this kind of love since my ex-husband tossed me across the room and called me a whore. Come here and give me a hug!”

Instead of trying to make friends, I’m probably better off sitting on the corner, dousing myself in gasoline and setting myself on fire. Not that anyone would notice such an everyday event anyway.

Valentine's Day, boo hoo, here's a box of tissue, you big baby

So I woke up this morning and realized it's Valentine's Day. Actually, I knew Valentine's Day was approaching because Spawn, my darling baby sister, has been on the phone with me for the past week screaming various threats and epithets about her boyfriend and his, how shall I put this delicately, um, lack of interest in the holiday.

I, of course, am of the school of "Valentine's Day is a bunch of Hallmark malarkey" while on the inside secretly hoping for someone, ANYONE, to send me carnations soaked in red food dye, or some pastel colored, heart shaped candy with inane, meaningless sayings, or even some drug store chocolate whose aftertaste can only be washed away with gasoline. You know, I'm a real romantic. Just don't tell anyone.

Here in Greece, the holiday is a non-event. And so, there are very few women and sensitive men sitting around at home, lamenting their singledom. Unlike my sister's boyfriend, who is scrambling, as we speak, to avoid the hot poker she will repeatedly stab him in the neck with if he doesn't do something to appease her Valentine's Day beast.

Ahhh, to be 21 again and actually give a shit.

Anyway, I wanted to wish all of you who care a happy Valentine's Day and not to be sad today if you're alone. You were probably alone last night, and you'll probably be alone tomorrow night, so really, there's no need to be dramatic about it today.

And remember everyone, the Jews killed Jesus. And probably St. Valentine. You might be next.

There's something almost precious about starting anew

So my things finally arrived in Greece, approximately three months after I arrived, and approximately two months LATER than they were supposed to arrive.

Of course, I want to thank the worthless, good for nothing workers at the Greek docks who decided to partake in their annual Christmas strike.

Thanks guys!!! I loved living with patio furniture and four sweaters for three months, really. Brought back college memories. You guys are great. I hope a rabid dog chews off your nuts so you can't reproduce using your inferior genes.

The good news is, my furniture fits in the apartment. The even better news is I found out that I totally overpaid for shipping. Isn't that great?!

When shipping things abroad, for those of you who may not know, you pay by the square foot. And the shipping companies will generally recommend you have your things packed by them, you know, "because of customs and issues that may arise...."

Of course, when I unpacked my alleged 430 square feet of goods the moving company insisted I had, I realized that approximately 150 of that was empty space. Not packing paper or bubble wrap. Oh no. 150 square feet at over $13.00 a foot. DO THE MATH.

I actually enjoy getting sodomized without lube. I find it rather novel; a unique experience unlike any other. I highly recommend it to those of you with nothing to do on a random Saturday night. Come on, live a little.

Vaseline? No, no thanks. None for me!!! I like to bleed from the ass. Reminds me of the good old law firm days.

Betty Crocker has opened a can of whip-ass

Since sacrificing myself on the altar of domesticity, I have realized a number of things. First of all, "take out" is not one of the four major food groups. As such, I have discovered that I can actually cook. Which is relatively surprising because two months ago was the first time I ever used an oven. I'm 31 years old. This, this is sad.

I have learned that it takes about seventeen times longer to make a meal than to eat it. And about twelve times longer to clean up after. We're talking a 17:1:12 ratio. This is simply poor time management; the opportunity cost is way off. Especially when the alternative is a three minute phone call, exchanging money for food, eating, and then throwing everything away. A friendlier 1/17:1:1/12 ratio if you will.

I have learned that the fairies at the dry cleaners who spread sunshine and joy for only $.99 a shirt are not the only ones expected to know how to get wrinkles out of a button-down. I am expected to have fairy dust as well. It actually comes with my new iron.

I have learned that the killer dust that continues to cover every surface of my apartment no matter how many times a day I clean and how tightly I shut the windows is most likely nuclear clouds of radiation being blown around Europe from Chernobyl.

I have learned that the washing machine is actually not an evil contraption created by some crazed NASA scientist who's watched one too many episodes of Star Trek and is trying to send everyone through a worm hole.

And I have further learned that there are more than just "whites" and "everything else" when classifying clothing. Of course, gone are the days when the dry cleaning fairies would make that distinction for me....

I have learned that two people, for some strange reason, cannot subsist on only champagne, soy sauce packets, and granola, and that food shopping is an evolving, continuous chore that actually needs to be done more than once every never.

And most importantly, I have learned that I MUST FIND A JOB.

I'm too old to get home at 7 in the morning....

Well, it's the new year, with promises of a whole slew of new resolutions, prayers, and intentions that will crash miserably to the ground and get washed away into the nearest sewer.

But until then, I want to wish you all happiness, health, fulfillment and love.

And don't forget, the Jews did kill Jesus.

Happy New Year everybody!!!

Day 5,674,758,320

Boyfriend still home with broken leg. Doctor predicts cast to stay on for another month.

Prospect of spending life in maximum security Greek prison more and more appealing.

Ahhhh, the holidays....

Well, it's the holiday season again everybody, and I wanted to wish all my friends and non-friends out in blog world a very Merry Christmas. And remember, the Jews killed Jesus.

And we'd do it again.

Ho ho ho!!!!!

Conversation you shouldn't have with a JEW

It's the biggest thing since the birth of Christ.

The birth of Christ was the biggest thing ever so far?

Well, you know honey, a billion people can't be wrong....

Um, using the "A billion satisfied customers from McDonald's" motif to validate your religion may not be WHAT JESUS WOULD DO.

Nurse Ratched was just misunderstood, silly

So, I'm not exactly Florence Nightingale. I barely have the patience to take care of myself, much less a 200 pound five year old masquerading as an adult.

See, my boyfriend was in a terrible car accident last Saturday. (He was on the shoulder of the highway, under the hood of his car fixing something, and was rear-ended by an 18-wheeler) Luckily, he managed to get away with only three stitches and a broken right foot.

Thing is, he's been home, in bed with that broken foot for the past week and a half. And it's been a week of "Honey, could you please bring me/get me/put for me/take for me/make for me/fix for me......" and I'm starting to think maybe I should go find that truck driver and ask him to finish the job.

It's not like he can't get around on his crutches, or go out and take care of errands when someone drives him, or isn't capable of making something to eat when we have an argument and he's not speaking with me.

But he prefers to lay in bed and ask, very prettily, for whatever it is that strikes his fancy. And the food orders?! "Um, I'll have two eggs over easy, and some sausage, but cut up this time, and home-made french fries, and toast with coffee, but filter coffee, and make sure you put enough sugar this time."

HOME-MADE FRENCH FRIES?!?! What am I in the army? Standing around peeling potatoes and deep frying them in the middle of the day for just ONE of his meals?!

Getting hit by a truck is nothing compared to what I'm capable of.

Or the, "What fruits do we have?" "We have apples, oranges, bananas and grapes." "Oh good, can you make me a fruit salad please?"

Fruit salad? FRUIT SALAD? Am I in the geriatric wing of the apartment? You want me to peel and chop fruits into bite-sized pieces for you? Do I look like June Cleaver? Has any part of my personality given you the impression that I'm NOT the type of woman who will put razor blades in your food if you piss me off?

Or the, "Can you get me a beer?" And then, the food arrives. "Um, honey, did you forget my coke? You know I only drink coke when I'm eating." And then, once we're finished eating, with the coke and the beer STILL ON THE TABLE, "Um, honey, can you please get me some water? I only drink coke with food you know, and I don't feel like more beer."

I will sodomize you with the broken end of the beer bottle if you ask me for one more thing.

I won't even get into the fact that there are people here four to five nights a week that I get to cater to as well. Of course, I think he has them here because he knows after an entire day of fetching, I'm closer to killing him at night. A buffer if you will. Like I've ever let the notion of witnesses stop me.

And if anyone dares write me a comment complaining that I should have more compassion and all that crap, then I hope your spouse gets hit by a truck and then we'll see whose significant other dies of "complications" first.

Hanging up my disco shoes

So there are certain social lows I've reached in my life. Let's be honest, High School was a four year social low.

But somehow I managed to escape the Badminton Team, the Debate Team, the AP classes and a dateless Prom night to build a new life.

Unfortunately, no matter what you look like on the outside, once a nerd, always a nerd.

Last night, on my first foray out in Athens alone to meet a group of ex-pats, I find myself sitting in a Starsucks, KNITTING.

A group of lovely young women, sitting around, drinking coffee, chatting and knitting. They were not nerds, but we were doing something painfully nerdy.

They were also unnaturally nice. I mean, there was no backbiting, no snarkiness, no one made fun of anyone else. They encouraged each other, told stories, complimented each other, AND THEY ACTUALLY MEANT IT. I realized then I was in the wrong place.

Hell, I mean even when someone left, they sat around and talked about how nice she was, how great she was. No one said anything bad about her. What the hell is that?! When a woman, sitting with other women leaves first, she's just opened herself up to ridicule. This is a sacred social rule!

And these girls broke some sacred social rules. The first being, you never put yourself in a public place where others can point and laugh at you. Unless tequila is involved. The second is, you are never simply nice. Some sort of social politics must be involved, gossip, backbiting, envy. You know, the things that make you friends.

And here I am sitting in a Starsucks, knitting. Of course, I picked up the knitting pretty quickly because I USED TO KNOW HOW. I was probably knitting on Prom night, at home, alone. That must be it. I'm suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

Maybe I'll go to Gucci today, to be treated poorly by the sales staff. That'll put the universe back in order.

Sleeping Beauty

I have decided that the reason my boyfriend can go into a slumberous, immediate sleep the minute his head hits the pillow during or after a fight is because the XY chromosome is missing that extra extension of the XX chromosome housing the gene that keeps me awake and SEETHING for hours in bed.

Now, it could be any kind of fight; the "Fine." "Fine!" "FINE!" "FIIIIIIINE!!!!!" kind of fight; or the simultaneous screaming "I hate you, you jerk!" "You're a pain in the ass!" "I can't believe I'm actually dating you!" "One more sound out of you, and I'm going to toss you over the balcony!" that ends abruptly into an uncomfortable, charged silence; or the, "You did WHAT?!" "But..I..." "WHAT?!" "Oh YEAH? Well what about the time you..." "Don't you even bring that up. That has nothing to do with this!" "Yes it does!" "Shut up." "You shut up." "No, you shut up." "No, you." "Aaaaggggghhhhhhhhh!"

It could be any type of fight and yet within mere seconds I hear the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing. Now I don't know what the hell, or how the hell, or what adolescent boys who are trapped in the bodies of grown men dream about, be it race cars, or porn stars, or tools or whatever, BUT I AM NOT FINISHED WITH THIS FIGHT.

I'm tossing, I'm turning, I'm flopping around, deep sighs, staring at the ceiling, staring evil thoughts into the back of his head. I get up, get some water, come back, make a rucus. Nothing.

If I thought it would do anything, (like startle him awake or scare him or even just piss him off), I'd hit him in the head with the pillow while he slept. But really, the results of trying to reason with him while conscious or comatose are the same. So why even bother. Jerk.

Et tu Discovery Channel?

As you would imagine, living in Europe affords one certain benefits. Like cool fashions, a more social atmosphere, a more relaxed, laid back attitude.

It also offers certain surprises. Things you wouldn't really think about. For example, when you get your satellite cable set up, you would probably be excited about access to English speaking channels, like MTV, E!, National Geographic, and even three HBO-like movie channels, to name a few.

You would probably not anticipate that starting at midnight, all these relatively lovely, entertaining channels begin to air pornography. Tons and tons and hours upon hours of pornography. And not soft porn you watch on Skinemax. No no. Real, full on, bangeroo porn. Porn that offends even my not-so-tender sensibilities.

The other night, I started watching E!, which was airing what I originally thought was a show about the Cannes Film Festival. Silly silly little old me. It was almost midnight. Of course it wasn't about the Cannes Film Festival, it was about the Cannes PORN Film Festival, replete with full-on nudity and simulated and not simulated sex acts. Duh!

So I flip, and start to watch the Girls Next Door, the show about Hugh Hefner's lovely three girlfriends. Um, except here, the three lovelies were in the shower together, soaping each other up, and down, and back up again. All nude, obviously, and nothing blurred out. Tits, ass and everything (EVERYTHING) else in full view and glory.

So I think, idiotically, maybe a nice movie. Um, yeah. Zoom in, a girl getting the living daylights banged out of her, with the camera practically up her vagina along with the guy's penis.

NEXT!

Aaahhhh, the Discovery Channel. I love LOVE love the Discovery Channel. The Discovery Channel won't let me down. It never does. Even it's European cousin can't be that bad.

And then, my little heart breaks as we endeavor down the "scientific" road to human genitalia and the various plastic surgery options available for women to fix their breasts, their labia majora, their labia minora, the vaginal canal, with a camera obtrusively prying into a woman's actual body parts for demonstration. Of course, what educational show would be complete without discussing penile implants, using a human model's penis for full effect.

And this whole situation is worsened because my boyfriend is sitting right next to me, while I cringe at the TV, feeling like a fourteen year-old watching a movie with her parents when an uncomfortable sex scene comes on.

I'm not against porn, but I prefer my porn to be regulated, like, if I want to watch something, I'll surf the net, or rent it, or even buy it, and then, I can control my porn viewing. But indiscriminate porn? Just porn all over the place, with tits and ass and pussy and dick getting thrown at me from all angles? Not so much.

I mean, if I really wanted to relive uncomfortable, awkward, clammy-handed experiences, I would just go back to high school.

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

I don't know how some of you feel about baby talk, but I know how you should feel. You should hate it, and find it revolting. Because it is.

I can't stand baby talk. I think it's ridiculous. It should be relegated to three year old girls in pink dresses holding teddy bears who haven't been able to master full sentences and enunciation yet. After that point, it should be beaten out of anyone that tries to use it. With the buckle end of the belt.

Grown women and MOST IMPORTANTLY MEN OF ANY AGE should never partake in baby talk. At no time ever.

I've heard grown women, (and by grown women I mean anyone who can dress herself) baby talk to their fathers and boyfriends. I almost fell over. This perfectly articulate woman will get her father or boyfriend on the phone, and suddenly morph into some cloying, childish idiot, speaking in a saccharine sweet voice twelve octaves higher than normal. What circle of hell have I just fallen into?

And people who baby talk to babies and address them in the third-person. Are you kidding me?! "Does Dougy Wougy wanna go outsidey widey?" Oh my god. That, THAT is child abuse. The child might as well be raised by apes in the Bronx zoo. What's the difference at this point.

And the worst, WORST, WORST!!!!!! is when a grown man baby talks. What are you doing?! What is that?! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

You might think I feel this way because I'm a heartless bitter bitch. Well, it's actually because I'm an adult that can communicate thoughts and ideas at a level not relegated to people who are still getting their asses wiped by their parents.

Men should never baby talk to a woman. It is not attractive, it is not cute, it is not tender. It is annoying and emasculating. Get a hold of yourself man. Women do not swoon over a man who wants to know if she wants another bitey witey of the dessert. Put the forky worky down before I stab you with it in the necky wecky. Baby-talking jackass.

A test run in preparation for the real last hurrah

So at a certain point in a woman's life, she usually stops behaving like a wild teenager, she stops going out all night, drinking herself into oblivion on a random Tuesday, she doesn't show up to work smelling like alcohol, nursing a terrible hangover, she manages to keep her dinner down, she can explain all the bruises and random sore spots on her body, she's able to be productive and concentrate on her work, she's able to recall the events and conversations of the previous night, and she basically carries herself with at least a modicum of self-respect, self-control and self-possession.

I, sadly, have yet to reach that point.

Leaving on a jet plane, only to probably come crawling back in a month

So you know that whole thing, when you meet someone, and you feel this connection and familiarity, even though you just met, and you can talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing?

And you're both so excited about each other, and you end up in love a few months later? And then after being in love for over a year, the someone you met decides to ask you to pledge to spend your life with him even if it means that you have to pick up and move your whole life to another country? And he tells you that he wants to take care of you, and wants to have children with you, and wants to wake up next to you everyday?

And because you're being asked on a beautiful island, with the person you're a love-sick puppy over, you respond with a googly-eyed, adoring and excited yes?

And when you return home, you spend two months lying and involving accomplices to get approval from your co-op board to rent out your apartment, you find temporary legal work, you find normal, well adjusted tenants who won't turn your home into a crystal-meth lab, you bargain and haggle with movers so that you don't have to sell any organs to pay for your move, you deal with the (NON-RESPONSIVE) embassy of the country you're moving to, because really, government workers are utterly useless no matter where they're from, and you basically need to check yourself into the hospital from the stress of it all, and still have to say goodbye to your family, your friends, your job all for this chance at building a life with the person you consider your other half?

Yeah. That whole thing is just utterly idiotic. The most moronic, sappy, disgusting, stupid story I've ever heard. That person should really just kill themselves. Anybody have a gun I can borrow?

Mulan

I have an office mate now. I haven't had an office mate since I was a first year associate.

She's great. We've been working together for three weeks. She's Korean, and therefore obviously much smarter than I am. I think our boss is catching on. Asians. Always ruining the curve.

We're madly in love. I know, you're all thinking that it's too early to fall in love. But it's not. I love her, and she loves me. Except she refuses to tell me how old she is. She claims to be in her mid 30's and thinks that's old. Well, of course it's old. But being old is nothing to be ashamed of. We're working on her self-esteem.

She even speaks Korean. Well, the only person she actually speaks Korean with is her mom, so she actually yells Korean.

I tease her all the time by asking for a manicure.* She's a Dartmouth and Georgetown graduate taking shit from me. That alone proves there's no god.

It's nice to have female friends. Well, at least so far it's nice. Once the boss catches on that she's a genius, making my stupidity even more apparent, it's going to suck to have to break into her computer and leave incriminating emails. Again. But hey, getting ahead isn't about making friends. It's about eliminating the competition.

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.

*For those of you not from New York, the Koreans have cornered the market on Nail Salons. Damn Korean mafia.

Office Stalker II, because sometimes, a girl needs more than one dick

So if it's even possible, I've managed to acquire another office stalker. This stalker, Stalker II, is not like Stalker I. He's not overtly sexual and convinced of his own male prowess. His behavior is just strange. Even by lawyer standards.

He "stops by" all the time and hovers, like the space ship that dropped him off, trying to make conversation. He comments on the view all the time. Going so far as to categorize it as THREE DIMENSIONAL. Yes, he did.

Usually, he just stands and stares uncomfortably, without saying anything. Just stands. Stares. Silent.

He barges into my office, (no knock), to chat (or stand, and stare. Stare silently), when I'm clearly working. Or at least pretending to be so engrossed in whatever is on my screen that not even a naked Clive Owen could distract me.

He refuses to acknowledge any of my GO AWAY signals: the monosyllabic responses, the-one sided conversation, the lack of eye-contact, the repeated refusal to go anywhere with him, the stapler I threw at him. Nothing.

I recently found out that Stalker II stalks many women in the firm, including the receptionists and secretaries. It's a relief to find out the severed body parts he plans to store in his freezer could come from any of us. The bigger the pool, the smaller my risk of ending up a chance encounter in an alley gone very VERY wrong.

Inebriated Lunchtime Banter

Me: You know what I've noticed?

Friend: What?

Me: I've notice that married men have a wandering eye. Do you know how many married men I catch checking me out?

Friend: I'm married. I don't have a wandering eye.

Me: Really?

Friend: Yeah, I look straight at all the hot women.

Next stop - The emergency room

You know, I really don't understand those selfish people, those ridiculous people that get sick on a train and instead of getting off, choose to remain on the train and await medical assistance. What? The seat on the train is any more comfortable or sanitary than the platform floor? You're fooling yourself if you think so.

These people need to get off the train and wait for the paramedics, or firemen, or Superman, or whoever it is that comes to save them. I mean, does the searing chest pain of a heart attack feel any less painful if 500 people are forced to wait it out with you? Let's be honest here. Cramps? Nausea? Wouldn't they feel more comfortable stretched out on the train platform rather than cramped up in a crowded car, receiving evil looks from passengers who wish they would just get on with it and die already so we can roll their body out of the car and get to work?

I'm never going to get back the 15 minutes I lost this morning. Never. That's 15 minutes of billing time. Or net surfing time. Or whatever time, but either way, IT WAS MY TIME. And now it's gone.

So I think as commuters, we need to make a concerted effort to keep our problems to ourselves and be more respectful of our fellow commuters. It's a fast paced world and people are busy. Water broke? Waddle your way off the train, Mamma. Someone will help you soon. Hopefully. Whatever.